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A Devil and Her Love Song, Vol. 4

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A Devil and Her Love Song has been one of 2012’s best surprises. Though the series uneven — and sometimes a little silly — its heroine is one of the most memorable in the Shojo Beat canon. Maria Kawai looks like a mean girl on the surface: she’s pretty and unsparingly blunt, pointing out her classmates’ insecurities with all the delicacy of Dr. Phil. Yet Maria’s bull-in-a-china-shop demeanor reflects her own uncertainty about how to be the kind of person who’s liked for who she is, not the kind of person who’s admired for telling unpleasant truths. And that makes her interesting.

Early in volume four, for example, Maria confronts queen bee Ayu in the bathroom, where she finds Ayu primping for the television cameras. When Maria questions Ayu’s behavior — “But you look the same,” she tells Ayu — Ayu is furious. Maria, however, persists — not because she wants the embarrass a rival, but because she wants to share a hard-won piece of advice. “If someone likes you, or wants to get to know you, it’s not because of how you look,” she tells Ayu. “It’s because you show them how you feel.”

Ayu’s subsequent behavior, however, points to one of the series’ weaknesses: characters have epiphanies with whiplash-inducing frequency. (Saul would never have made it to Damascus if he fell off his donkey as many times as Maria’s classmates do.) Though some of these epiphanies feel genuine, many are contrived: would an alpha girl suddenly confess her feelings to a cute boy in front of all her friends, risking public rejection? Or the class darling admit that she’s actually a nasty manipulator, risking her popularity? Those are nice fantasies, but not very plausible ones; Tomori is working too hard to convince us that Maria’s classmates secretly wish they could be more like her, and not giving group-think and fear enough due.

The series also relies heavily on shopworn gimmicks to advance the plot. The arrival of a television crew in volume three, for example, serves no useful purpose; they disappear for long stretches at a home, only to materialize when the plot demands that someone bear witness to the class’ antics. Maria’s long-running feud with her teacher, too, feels more like an editor’s suggestion than an original idea. To be sure, a student as outspoken as Maria might infuriate a certain kind of adult, but her teacher’s cartoonish behavior renders him ineffective; his actions seem too obvious, too ripe for exposure, for him to pose a real threat to Maria.

Where A Devil and Her Love Song shines is in Maria’s one-on-one interactions with other students. These scenes remind us that everyone is wearing a mask in high school — even Maria, whose sharp comments are as much a pose as Hana’s forced cheerfulness. Though Tomori nails the mean-girl dynamic in all its exquisite awfulness, the best of these exchanges belong to Maria and Shin. Their will-they-won’t-they tension is certainly an effective narrative hook, but what makes these scenes compelling is their honesty. Tomori captures her characters’ body language and fitful conversations, which unfold in fragments, silences, and sudden bursts of feeling, rather than eloquent declarations.

I don’t know about you, but that’s how I remember high school, as a time when I had flashes of insight and bravery, but a lot more moments of cringe-inducing stupidity, cowardice, or tongue-tied helplessness. That Tomori captures adolescence in all its discomfort while still writing a romance that’s fun, readable, and sometimes endearingly silly, is proof of her skill. Now if she could just ditch the television crew and the evil teacher…

Review copy provided by VIZ Media.

A DEVIL AND HER LONG SONG • BY MIYOSHI TOMORI • VIZ MEDIA • 200 pp. • RATING: TEEN (13+)

A Devil and Her Love Song, Vol. 4

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A Devil and Her Love Song has been one of 2012’s best surprises. Though the series uneven — and sometimes a little silly — its heroine is one of the most memorable in the Shojo Beat canon. Maria Kawai looks like a mean girl on the surface: she’s pretty and unsparingly blunt, pointing out her classmates’ insecurities with all the delicacy of Dr. Phil. Yet Maria’s bull-in-a-china-shop demeanor reflects her own uncertainty about how to be the kind of person who’s liked for who she is, not the kind of person who’s admired for telling unpleasant truths. And that makes her interesting.

Early in volume four, for example, Maria confronts queen bee Ayu in the bathroom, where she finds Ayu primping for the television cameras. When Maria questions Ayu’s behavior — “But you look the same,” she tells Ayu — Ayu is furious. Maria, however, persists — not because she wants the embarrass a rival, but because she wants to share a hard-won piece of advice. “If someone likes you, or wants to get to know you, it’s not because of how you look,” she tells Ayu. “It’s because you show them how you feel.”

Ayu’s subsequent behavior, however, points to one of the series’ weaknesses: characters have epiphanies with whiplash-inducing frequency. (Saul would never have made it to Damascus if he fell off his donkey as many times as Maria’s classmates do.) Though some of these epiphanies feel genuine, many are contrived: would an alpha girl suddenly confess her feelings to a cute boy in front of all her friends, risking public rejection? Or the class darling admit that she’s actually a nasty manipulator, risking her popularity? Those are nice fantasies, but not very plausible ones; Tomori is working too hard to convince us that Maria’s classmates secretly wish they could be more like her, and not giving group-think and fear enough due.

The series also relies heavily on shopworn gimmicks to advance the plot. The arrival of a television crew in volume three, for example, serves no useful purpose; they disappear for long stretches at a home, only to materialize when the plot demands that someone bear witness to the class’ antics. Maria’s long-running feud with her teacher, too, feels more like an editor’s suggestion than an original idea. To be sure, a student as outspoken as Maria might infuriate a certain kind of adult, but her teacher’s cartoonish behavior renders him ineffective; his actions seem too obvious, too ripe for exposure, for him to pose a real threat to Maria.

Where A Devil and Her Love Song shines is in Maria’s one-on-one interactions with other students. These scenes remind us that everyone is wearing a mask in high school — even Maria, whose sharp comments are as much a pose as Hana’s forced cheerfulness. Though Tomori nails the mean-girl dynamic in all its exquisite awfulness, the best of these exchanges belong to Maria and Shin. Their will-they-won’t-they tension is certainly an effective narrative hook, but what makes these scenes compelling is their honesty. Tomori captures her characters’ body language and fitful conversations, which unfold in fragments, silences, and sudden bursts of feeling, rather than eloquent declarations.

I don’t know about you, but that’s how I remember high school, as a time when I had flashes of insight and bravery, but a lot more moments of cringe-inducing stupidity, cowardice, or tongue-tied helplessness. That Tomori captures adolescence in all its discomfort while still writing a romance that’s fun, readable, and sometimes endearingly silly, is proof of her skill. Now if she could just ditch the television crew and the evil teacher…

Review copy provided by VIZ Media.

A DEVIL AND HER LONG SONG • BY MIYOSHI TOMORI • VIZ MEDIA • 200 pp. • RATING: TEEN (13+)

Dawn of the Arcana, Vols. 3-5

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On the surface, Dawn of the Arcana looks like a Harlequin romance. Its flame-haired heroine is feisty and impetuous, torn between her feelings for the man who raised her and the man she was forced to marry. Both men are keen to “own” her — their word, not mine — and are willing to go to ridiculous extremes to prove their devotion, even setting aside their differences to honor her requests. And true to Harlequin form, the heroine frequently struggles to reconcile the circumstances of her marriage and her growing feelings for her jailer-husband.

Peer beneath its romance-novel trappings, however, and it quickly becomes clear that manga-ka Rei Toma is actually writing a pretty nifty fantasy-adventure as well, one with interesting moral dilemmas, parallels with contemporary geopolitics, and multi-layered characters whose behavior frequently deviates from the Harlequin playbook.

In volume three, for example, Nakaba’s mother-in-law attempts to dye her hair black, lest visiting dignitaries realize that the new Belquat princess hails from Senan. Toma might have used this scene to provide Caesar an opportunity to publicly declare his feelings for Nakaba, or demonstrate Nakaba’s ability to endure hazing with noble forbearance. Instead, Toma transforms this act of fairy-tale cruelty into a moment of self-actualization: Nakaba seizes a sword and defiantly gives herself a fabulous pixie cut — er, short, boyish locks — denying the queen the satisfaction of humiliating her in front of the royal family.

That act resonates throughout the next three volumes, as Nakaba sheds her girlish braid and girlish indignation in favor of a stronger, more active role in defeating Belquat’s royal family. Though Nakaba’s new ‘do leads to some predictable exchanges about “looking like a boy,” both Loki and Caesar admire her determination: red hair symbolizes more than just her country of origin, but also the struggles that helped define her as a person.

As appealing as such scenes may be, they highlight the series’ main drawback: the artwork is too plain and spare for a story with such vivid characters. Though the principal characters’ costumes are rendered in considerable detail, the supporting cast resemble Renfair extras, with faintly old-timey clothing and long tresses. Worse still are the backgrounds: with their perfect right angles and unvaried lines, they look like stills from an ancient Nintendo game, rather than a representation of a specific time and place. That sterility isn’t a deal-breaker, but it does reinforce the impression that Toma hasn’t quite developed the artistic chops to fully realize her vision.

Despite its artistic shortcomings, Dawn of the Arcana remains an appealing mixture of fantasy and romance, offering just enough sword fights, scenes of female empowerment, and emotional entanglements to appeal to fans of both genres.

Review copies provided by VIZ Media, LLC.

DAWN OF THE ARCANA, VOLS. 3-5 | BY REI TOMA | VIZ MEDIA | RATING: TEEN (13+)

Dawn of the Arcana, Vols. 3-5

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On the surface, Dawn of the Arcana looks like a Harlequin romance. Its flame-haired heroine is feisty and impetuous, torn between her feelings for the man who raised her and the man she was forced to marry. Both men are keen to “own” her — their word, not mine — and are willing to go to ridiculous extremes to prove their devotion, even setting aside their differences to honor her requests. And true to Harlequin form, the heroine frequently struggles to reconcile the circumstances of her marriage and her growing feelings for her jailer-husband.

Peer beneath its romance-novel trappings, however, and it quickly becomes clear that manga-ka Rei Toma is actually writing a pretty nifty fantasy-adventure as well, one with interesting moral dilemmas, parallels with contemporary geopolitics, and multi-layered characters whose behavior frequently deviates from the Harlequin playbook.

In volume three, for example, Nakaba’s mother-in-law attempts to dye her hair black, lest visiting dignitaries realize that the new Belquat princess hails from Senan. Toma might have used this scene to provide Caesar an opportunity to publicly declare his feelings for Nakaba, or demonstrate Nakaba’s ability to endure hazing with noble forbearance. Instead, Toma transforms this act of fairy-tale cruelty into a moment of self-actualization: Nakaba seizes a sword and defiantly gives herself a fabulous pixie cut — er, short, boyish locks — denying the queen the satisfaction of humiliating her in front of the royal family.

That act resonates throughout the next three volumes, as Nakaba sheds her girlish braid and girlish indignation in favor of a stronger, more active role in defeating Belquat’s royal family. Though Nakaba’s new ‘do leads to some predictable exchanges about “looking like a boy,” both Loki and Caesar admire her determination: red hair symbolizes more than just her country of origin, but also the struggles that helped define her as a person.

As appealing as such scenes may be, they highlight the series’ main drawback: the artwork is too plain and spare for a story with such vivid characters. Though the principal characters’ costumes are rendered in considerable detail, the supporting cast resemble Renfair extras, with faintly old-timey clothing and long tresses. Worse still are the backgrounds: with their perfect right angles and unvaried lines, they look like stills from an ancient Nintendo game, rather than a representation of a specific time and place. That sterility isn’t a deal-breaker, but it does reinforce the impression that Toma hasn’t quite developed the artistic chops to fully realize her vision.

Despite its artistic shortcomings, Dawn of the Arcana remains an appealing mixture of fantasy and romance, offering just enough sword fights, scenes of female empowerment, and emotional entanglements to appeal to fans of both genres.

Review copies provided by VIZ Media, LLC.

DAWN OF THE ARCANA, VOLS. 3-5 | BY REI TOMA | VIZ MEDIA | RATING: TEEN (13+)

Adventures in the Key of Shoujo: X, Vol. 1

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X, Vol. 1: 3-in-1 | By CLAMP | Published by VIZ Media | Rated: T, Ages 13+

CLAMP might be the first manga artists I became aware of back in the day. While Sailor Moon and its risable dub didn’t interest me, the dubbed version of Cardcaptor Sakura, or Cardcaptors as it was known, was interesting. Knowledge that was based on a Japanese manga sent me to the old MIXX edition of the book. So I knew they existed. A few years go by and I own smatterings of Legal Drug, xxxHolic, Tsubasa Chronicle, Magic Knight Rayearth and a few others. But strangely, it was the discovery of an anime version of one of CLAMP’s bigger properties that would start over ten years of frustration. The title? X.

X tells the story of Kamui, a young high school-going boy who returns to Tokyo after the violent death of his mother. Childhood friends, Fuma and Kotori, are of course delighted to see him again. However, things cannot be as they once were. Kamui seems to be pursued by people who want to possess him and his psychic powers. One one side, Princess Hinoto who only wants Kamui for noble purposes and on the other, Kanoe, her sister, who only wants Kamui for destructive reasons. Every physical conflict in the story is settled by psychic battles that take place inside barriers. No battle can damage the real world while it happens inside the barrier but once a combatant dies, the damage becomes real. Now the countdown is on to 1999 and the day of reckoning.

Wow, CLAMP’s serious stuff always reads like a 70’s disaster movie starring Cary Grant and Ava Gardner. It sounds goofy as anything but once into the nuts and bolts, it really has legs to run with. X, I’ve known about since watching the Rintaro-directed movie from the mid-90’s. And of course, the TV series from Yoshiaki Kawajiri, I’ve not seen but heard about. But you see, the most famous thing about one of CLAMP’s biggest titles is that it was never finished. The team just stopped working on it (for particulars, see the Wikpedia article on it) and have never gone back to it. I guess being successful means you don’t have to be consistent. The movie and the TV show had to craft their own endings so your milage will seriously vary. But the manga is good, I have to say. After reading about the books for a while, I picked up the VIZ omnibus edition of volume 1. I’ll try not to spoil the other versions too much for you.

Kamui might be the most annoying CLAMP creation I’ve seen. He’s the lead, the hero, the chosen one—but by God, he’s so confident in his own abilities, it borders on arrogance. He fights anyone at the drop of a pin, which since he’s a psychic warrior, means the bar repair bill is going to be high. He’s angry, moody and pushy. He’s haunted by his last night in Tokyo before he and his mother had to flee. It’s so hard to see into his character in this volume. I get the sense that the manga version of Kamui cares about his childhood friends and normal people but psychic fighters, he couldn’t care less about, like they are fair game since he’s the king of the junkyard dogs. This is inconsistent with his promise to his mother to live long enough to see the year 1999. He’s fighting anybody without regard for his safety. What does this mean? The authors aren’t saying. Kotori is a typical non-leading female character from CLAMP in that she’s a frail, fragile girl who just wishes, darn it, can’t we all just get along? She clearly has fuzzy feelings for Kamui but he’s shutting her out to protect her. Fuma, well, is a nice guy who loves his sister Kotori and tries to shield her from the childhood trauma of finding their mother butchered, together. He loves his friend Kamui and would never hurt him but he’s being pushed to choose whom to protect. I’m not talking about the rest of the characters because you should find out yourself.

I like the set up of this first volume. You get a sense that something is coming from Hinoto’s apocalyptic visions to the way in which Kanoe is moving and maneuvering her own players. Kamui knows, just knows, something bad is after him and he tries shutting out Fuma and Kotori to protect both of them from whatever it is that pursues him. There are unintended fights between him and Hinoto’s people but the real fight is yet to happen. Another thing is, and this is one of CLAMP’s major strengths, that all the cast get a chance to explain themselves to the audience, and in doing so engage in exposition. It’s a really interesting technique to observe. If anyone else did it, I’d roll my eyes but CLAMP always make it seem natural. Even the antagonists get a chance to do this. It’s doesn’t make them any nicer people but at least I understand their motivations a bit better now. Finally, there seems to be a conscious choice to set the fights during the night. Nothing bad really happens in the day and in this volume the daytime is associated with Kamui’s arrival in school, and public, for the first time when he arrives in Kotori’s field of vision out of a school window as if heaven sent. Interesting concept, since later in the day, Kamui tries to coldy dismiss Kotori (of course we know he’s trying to protect her). Dining on ashes at the end of the day, before the eternal night, perhaps?

Talking about a CLAMP book means talking about artwork and this work benefits from VIZ selecting a larger format book size. Every ink brush stroke, every pencil line is detailed and prominent, every character is clear. The work in here has an almost dream-like quality with long elegant lines and weird tilted camera angles. CLAMP aren’t really urban or technological artists, but when they do decide to do that type of work, it’s always refreshing to see it on display. Trying to pin down their technology style is a bit difficult. It’s one part Shirow Masamune, one part Michael Okuda, how’s that? And the character designs are, as always, varied and function oriented. Everyone looks like what they wear suits them.

I have never liked the anime ending to the X movie. But while I’m resigned to the fact that CLAMP might never finish their popular series, at least it looks good, is written smartly and has enough steam to see me through to X Omnibus vol.2. For newcomers to CLAMP, it’s a good place to start and a good book to own. For veterans, well. You’re already trapped in the hole, so keep going, huh?

To submit your contributions to the CLAMP MMF for inclusion in this month’s archive, please send your links by email to mj@mangabookshelf.com or via Twitter to @mjbeasi. If you would like your contribution(s) to be hosted at Manga Bookshelf, please email them to MJ, along with any included images.

My 5 Favorite CLAMP Manga

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I’ve read almost every CLAMP title available in English, from X (or X/1999, as we called it in back in the day) to Gate 7, and while I can’t claim to love them all, there is a core group of manga that I’ve read, re-read, and recommended to other fans. I make no special claims of excellence for these series, though I will say that these manga impressed me with their technical brilliance, genre-bending narratives, and beautiful artwork, if not their stellar endings.

MAGIC KNIGHT RAYEARTH (Dark Horse; 2 volumes)

It’s easy to forget that Magic Knight Rayearth ran in the pages of Nakayoshi, as it adheres so closely to the friendship-effort-victory template that it almost passes for a Shonen Jump title. A careful reading of MKR, however, reveals it to be a unique fusion of shojo and shonen storytelling practices. On a moment to moment basis, MKR reads like shojo: the heroines denigrate their academic prowess, swoon over the only cute boy to cross their path, and extol the value of “heart” in defeating their enemies. The intense and protracted battle scenes, however, scream Naruto — or maybe Gundam — as the girls are pushed to their physical and emotional limits while casting spells, swinging swords, and piloting giant robots. That CLAMP reconciles such tonally different genres into a coherent whole is an impressive narrative feat; no matter how many times the heroines utter dippy or painfully sincere sentiments, their tenacity in combat makes them every bit as bad-ass as Naruto, InuYasha, or Ichigo Kurasaki. -Reviewed at The Manga Critic on July 22, 2011.

LEGAL DRUG (Tokyopop; 3 volumes)

I hesitate to use the word “intertextual” to describe Legal Drug, as that term is so heavily freighted with academic associations. But intertextual it is, as Legal Drug takes place in a universe that’s been carefully mapped out in prior works such as Angelic Layer, Cardcaptor Sakura, and Suki. Major and minor characters from Chobits and Suki wander in and out of the story, providing comic relief and commentary on the budding relationship between Rikuo and Kazahaya, two handsome young errand boys for the Green Drugstore. As in xxxHolic — a series in which Rikuo and Kazahaya make guest appearances — the supernatural frequently intrudes on mundane existence, giving rise to scenes of sublime comedy and surreal grace. An odd mixture of melancholy and whimsy, with a soupçon of shonen-ai.

CLOVER (Dark Horse; 1 volume)

Clover is a gorgeous train wreck, an unholy marriage of shojo, steampunk, and science fiction that almost — almost — gels into a coherent story. The plot revolves around a class of psychically gifted individuals known as Clovers, who have been rounded up, tested, and sorted into categories based on their abilities. The most powerful — Three- and Four-Leaf Clovers — have been imprisoned, as they pose a threat to humanity.

In the small fragment of story that CLAMP completed, the Clovers’ abilities are hastily sketched; the few demonstrations of their powers are less-than-awe-inspiring, and the government’s reasons for fearing them poorly explained. But oh, the atmosphere! Anyone who remembers what it felt like to be fourteen will recognize the Clovers’ magnificent isolation, as they struggle with feelings of loneliness, rejection, and desire; that they’ve been singled out for being different (and special!) only heightens the emotional intensity of their dilemma. The artwork, too, is a feast for the eyes, with inventive layouts and sensual character designs that rank among CLAMP’s finest. Even CLAMP’s use of soggy, overwrought song lyrics as a narrative device contributes to the story’s moody beauty, if not the pantheon of great love songs.

SHIRAHIME-SYO: SNOW GODDESS TALES (Tokyopop; 1 volume)

Shirahime-Syo: Snow Goddess Tales is testament to CLAMP’s Borg-like ability assimilate any genre or artistic style and make it into their own. The three stories that comprise this slim volume are folkloric in tone and subject-matter, but expressed in a visual language that’s a beautiful synthesis of shojo manga and ukiyo print-making; the characters — with their pointy chins and artfully tousled hair — inhabit stark landscapes reminiscent of the Kishi and Shijo schools. If the overall mood is more subdued than xxxHolic or Tokyo Babylon, the stories are nonetheless moving in their directness and simplicity. The first, “On Wolf Mountain,” is the strongest of the three, exploring how one girl’s quest for revenge is transformed by the discovery that her enemy is, in fact, more courageous and generous than she ever imagined. The other stories — “The Ice Flower” and “Hiyoku no Tori” — read more like entries in Lafcadio Hearn’s Kwaidan and Other Strange Stories, but are nonetheless effective parables about sacrifice. An out-of-print gem.

X (VIZ; 6 volumes)

On many levels, X is a bad manga: the characters are underwritten, the storytelling is lazy, and the dialogue is comically awful. (Don’t believe me? Check out Party Like It’s 1999, a Tumblr blog dedicated to exploring X on a page-by-page basis.) If you can look past the 90s hair and the tin-eared dialogue, however, what you’ll discover is a fierce apocalyptic drama that boasts some of the best end-of-the-world imagery in any manga not written by Katsuhiro Otomo. Oh, and blood. Buckets of blood.

The battle scenes are kinetic and violent, executed with a gory zest that’s difficult to resist. The dream sequences, too, are suitably shocking: characters are dismembered, crucified, impaled, and engulfed in flames, often right before their loved ones’ eyes. I hesitate to suggest that X‘s body count is a victory for women, but it is a sharp and welcome rebuke to the idea that female readers strongly prefer conversation and character development to butt-kicking and carnage. – Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 10/16/11.

So, readers, I turn the floor over to you: what are your favorite CLAMP titles? Which manga do you recommend to friends and new fans? Inquiring minds want to know!

Jiu Jiu, Vol. 1

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My childhood bookshelves were filled with stories about wolves and the girls who loved them, so Jiu Jiu sounded like pure Kate Bait. Not only did Jiu Jiu feature wolves — two, to be exact — it also featured the kind of angry, conflicted heroine familiar to me from years of reading books like Sasha, My Friend. As an added bonus, Takamichi, the heroine, wasn’t just a frustrated teen adjusting to a new school and new classmates; she was a demon hunter who dispatched ghouls with the chilly efficiency of a robot, aided by Snow and Night.

But oh, the execution! Jiu Jiu is a riotously busy manga, with layouts that look more like a junior high school student’s scrapbook than a conscious ordering of panels. Author Touya Tobina draws cute wolf pups, but her command of human anatomy is poor; her characters’ rubbery limbs barely seem anchored to their torsos, resulting in odd pretzel configurations whenever they embrace or fight. Her use of screentone and pattern is similarly problematic: though the dark palette helps dramatize Takamichi’s inner turmoil, it also obscures many nicely observed moments, seldom allowing those images to stand alone, unadorned, for the reader to contemplate.

The other problem is the ever-present threat of romance. Snow and Night aren’t ordinary wolves; they’re shape-shifters who transform into handsome teenage boys. As much as they view Takamichi as their mother and mistress, there’s a strong whiff of eroticism in their interactions with her. Takamichi, of course, doesn’t yet perceive her pups’ romantic designs on her, though it doesn’t take a great leap of imagination to see that living with two attractive wolf-men might  invite emotional and physical entanglements beyond the occasional game of fetch. By placing so much emphasis on Snow and Night’s hotness, however, author Tobina seems to be laying the foundation for a much less interesting story, one in which the heroine must chose between two cute guys, rather than forge her own destiny.

Where Jiu Jiu redeems itself is in the individual characterizations. Takamichi, for example, reminded me a lot of how I was at sixteen: moody, isolated, and eager to mask my insecurities with belligerence and swagger. Her hot-and-cold relationship with Snow and Night also rings with truth, as she vacillates between nurturing them and sternly rejecting them, re-enacting her fraught relationship with her father in the process. Snow and Night, too, are a marked improvement on the standard-issue shojo prince. Yes, one is blonde and outgoing while the other is bespectacled and introspective, but both characters’ personalities betray their canine DNA; who but a dog would think a frisbee was the ideal birthday present for a human?

For all the skill with which these characters are realized, however, Jiu Jiu still frustrates more than it entertains. The author’s visually frenzied layouts and frequent recourse to emotional manipulation make volume one a bumpy ride, with too many unwarranted shifts between comedy and heart-tugging drama. (Does anything say “emotional manipulation” quite like the sight of a whimpering puppy?) I’m still clinging to the hope that Jiu Jiu will improve in future chapters, if for no other reason that I haven’t outgrown my love of stories about tough girls who run with wolves.

Review copy provided by VIZ Media LLC.

JIU JIU, VOL. 1 • BY TOUYA TOBINA • VIZ MEDIA • 200 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

Adventures in the Key of Shoujo: Sakura Hime, Vol. 2

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Sakura Hime: The Legend of Princess Sakura Volume 2 | By Arina Tanemura | Published by VIZ Media | Rated: T, Ages 13+

“Faint hearts never won fair maidens.”

This statement works in the case of both lead characters in Arina Tanemura’s Sakura Hime: The Legend of Princess Sakura. Aoba, a prince in the Japanese imperial court, is betrothed to Sakura, a princess of the moon (run with me here). But Sakura is now in danger of becoming a Youko (demon), and Aoba is charged with killing her. When last we left our leads, Sakura had to flee Aoba and his courtiers who were trying to kill her. After being betrayed by her retainer, Oumi, Sakura found sanctuary with Kohaku, a female ninja in the employ of Aoba’s family, and had finally confronted Aoba after being lured into a trap by him.

Well, things certainly have improved since last I wrote about this manga. A lot of the problems from the first volume have been addressed, if not corrected.

First up, the court intrigue hinted at now comes to the fore with not one or two but three groups with their own agendas working in the court. First is Aoba, who now is completely conflicted over his love for Sakura. She’s the enemy but she’s not at the same time. He has to kill her because of her exposure to the Youko. She is a demon so his course is clear. But when Lord Fujimarusaki (Aoba’s brother) offers a deal that allows Sakura to live in exchange for killing a local Youko that has been concerning the Togu (guy in charge) and his advisors, Aoba is stuck. Now that the reason for hating her has been put on hold, Aoba finds himself trying to fight his own brother for possession of her love.

Lord Fujimarusaki states his affection for Sakura both to her and to Aoba. But he also sees how important Sakura has become since Aoba rejected her. Suitors hoping for nothing more than political influence will try to gain her hand. So Fujimarusaki moves first. But is he doing this for noble reasons? Aoba doesn’t know, but doesn’t tip his hand.

Finally, an awesome new character has been introduced who has insiders in the Royal court working for them. This new character is definitively not human, has no trouble sacrificing others for the goal, and gets the cliffhanger moment at the end. Brilliant timing, and I hope this character will be staying around as more than just a villain of the week.

Poor Sakura’s position first gets better and then worse. After being betrayed by Oumi and then by Aoba, everything would be easier if she simply gave in and became a complete Youko. But her temperament (and I suspect her love for Aoba) is keeping her anchored, though I enjoy the fact that she, too, can’t get past either Aoba or his betrayal. They have a heated argument in this volume and you can see her wanting to tell him something—to tell him everything that she has in her heart and mind. But the fact is that he …I don’t know, has to be seen in a certain way with the court. Or perhaps she’s scared to tell him everything and risk losing him. Hmm, interesting bind to be in.

Also we finally learn why Oumi betrayed Sakura. On one hand, it’s predictable, and on the other it’s heartbreaking. Oumi isn’t strictly a bad person and she technically has good reasons for doing what she did. Still, no misguided person’s fall from grace stops at a single mistake, and sadly Oumi’s arc gets worse in tone. Sakura herself confronts the issue with Oumi at the same time, and Tanemura handles it well. If nothing else, the author seems to know where she’s going in this volume and sets up an excellent final act with tragedy, pathos, and heart.

My personal favourite moment in the volume comes when Sakura protects Aoba from a snake attack. Aoba thinks she did it for self-serving reasons but Sakura did it for the right reasons in her own mind. In doing so, it’s revealed that these near fatal wounds she receives are not as painless as people believe. When Aoba realises he’s hurt Sakura more than he imagined, he tries to console her as she sleeps. It’s a nice, poignant moment and it’s handled with care and no overload of emotion.

I think I’m still reading this story because of the setting in ancient Japan. This doesn’t allow for outward displays of affection, so everything is supposed to be low-key. Despite this, Tanemura lifts the constant downer material with great comedic spats between the characters. If they were in a modern setting, this story wouldn’t appeal all that much to me. It’s bubbly and effervescent but not overbearing. If I could single out anything, I’d say that there isn’t too much action going on for the most part. But not every apple has to be rosy red so I’m asking too much of the book. I’m still hanging in for a crack at volume three.

Puella Magi Madoka Magica, Vol. 1

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The opening pages of Puella Magi Madoka Magica suggest a dreary retread of Sailor Moon: Kyubey, a talking cat, appears before Madoka Kaname, a perky yet otherwise unremarkable school girl, and asks her, “Would you like to change destiny?” Our first clue that Puella has something nastier up its be-ribboned sleeve occurs midway through the first chapter, when transfer student Homura Akemi confronts Madoka with a dire, if cryptic, warning: “You should never consider ‘changing yourself’ in any way,” she tells Madoka. “If you choose not to heed my words, those things that you hold dear will all be lost.” Homura then attacks Kyubey, accusing him of using “dirty tactics” to persuade Madoka to make a contract with him.

Though all the trappings of a traditional magical girl manga are in place — the costume changes, the cute familiars, the teamwork — Puella charts a darker, more violent course than other translated examples of the genre. Homura and Madoka operate in a world where magical girls routinely die; though their powers are formidable, magical girls are worked to the point of emotional and physical exhaustion. Moreover, their contracts are signed under duress; Kyubey frequently appeals to girls in desperate circumstances, using their vulnerability as leverage. (In exchange for battling witches, he explains to Madoka, “I fulfill one wish. Any wish you want!”)

In short, Puella manages to have its cake and eat it, too, faithfully adhering to the genre’s conventions while offering an explicit critique of its underlying message of courage and selflessness. The story is the antithesis of a wish-fulfillment fantasy: the powers that Kyubey bestows come with responsibilities that are too difficult for a young, inexperienced person to bear. Throughout the manga, we see examples of magical girls who have become competitive or embittered by their experiences, at risk of becoming witches themselves. We also meet girls who regret the haste with which they made their contracts, as their wishes were fulfilled at the expense of friends and family members.

As sharp as Puella‘s genre critique may be, the artwork is a disappointment. The character designs are faithful to the original anime, but the magical elements look smudgy on the page, the product of too much dark grey screentone. The anime’s surreal fight sequences have lost their visual punch as well. Creatures that looked strange and menacing in color have been defanged, reduced to cute video game monsters floating above the picture plane.

Most of the fight scenes have been compressed into a few pages, further curtailing their impact; we barely have time to register who the opponents are before one of the magical girls has eliminated the threat. As a result, the volume’s climatic scene lacks emotional resonance. Though the characters have repeatedly discussed how dangerous their vocation is, the fight is so fleeting and impressionistic that the stakes seem too low to yield such a devastating outcome.

If the artwork lacks the personality of a Magic Knight Rayearth or Cardcaptor Sakura, however, the actual story is on par with the best translated examples of the magical girl manga. Like the aforementioned CLAMP titles, Puella Magi Madoka Magica treats the magical girl as a character worthy of complexity and genuine interiority; the Puella girls may engage in magical combat, but they’re painfully aware that saving the world can be an ugly business — even if they’re wearing smart costumes.

Review copy provided by Yen Press.

PUELLA MAGI MADOKA MAGICA, VOL. 1 • STORY BY MAGICA QUARTET, ART BY HANOKAGE • YEN PRESS • 144 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

Puella Magi Madoka Magica, Vol. 1

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The opening pages of Puella Magi Madoka Magica suggest a dreary retread of Sailor Moon: Kyubey, a talking cat, appears before Madoka Kaname, a perky yet otherwise unremarkable school girl, and asks her, “Would you like to change destiny?” Our first clue that Puella has something nastier up its be-ribboned sleeve occurs midway through the first chapter, when transfer student Homura Akemi confronts Madoka with a dire, if cryptic, warning: “You should never consider ‘changing yourself’ in any way,” she tells Madoka. “If you choose not to heed my words, those things that you hold dear will all be lost.” Homura then attacks Kyubey, accusing him of using “dirty tactics” to persuade Madoka to make a contract with him.

Though all the trappings of a traditional magical girl manga are in place — the costume changes, the cute familiars, the teamwork — Puella charts a darker, more violent course than other translated examples of the genre. Homura and Madoka operate in a world where magical girls routinely die; though their powers are formidable, magical girls are worked to the point of emotional and physical exhaustion. Moreover, their contracts are signed under duress; Kyubey frequently appeals to girls in desperate circumstances, using their vulnerability as leverage. (In exchange for battling witches, he explains to Madoka, “I fulfill one wish. Any wish you want!”)

In short, Puella manages to have its cake and eat it, too, faithfully adhering to the genre’s conventions while offering an explicit critique of its underlying message of courage and selflessness. The story is the antithesis of a wish-fulfillment fantasy: the powers that Kyubey bestows come with responsibilities that are too difficult for a young, inexperienced person to bear. Throughout the manga, we see examples of magical girls who have become competitive or embittered by their experiences, at risk of becoming witches themselves. We also meet girls who regret the haste with which they made their contracts, as their wishes were fulfilled at the expense of friends and family members.

As sharp as Puella‘s genre critique may be, the artwork is a disappointment. The character designs are faithful to the original anime, but the magical elements look smudgy on the page, the product of too much dark grey screentone. The anime’s surreal fight sequences have lost their visual punch as well. Creatures that looked strange and menacing in color have been defanged, reduced to cute video game monsters floating above the picture plane.

Most of the fight scenes have been compressed into a few pages, further curtailing their impact; we barely have time to register who the opponents are before one of the magical girls has eliminated the threat. As a result, the volume’s climatic scene lacks emotional resonance. Though the characters have repeatedly discussed how dangerous their vocation is, the fight is so fleeting and impressionistic that the stakes seem too low to yield such a devastating outcome.

If the artwork lacks the personality of a Magic Knight Rayearth or Cardcaptor Sakura, however, the actual story is on par with the best translated examples of the magical girl manga. Like the aforementioned CLAMP titles, Puella Magi Madoka Magica treats the magical girl as a character worthy of complexity and genuine interiority; the Puella girls may engage in magical combat, but they’re painfully aware that saving the world can be an ugly business — even if they’re wearing smart costumes.

Review copy provided by Yen Press.

PUELLA MAGI MADOKA MAGICA, VOL. 1 • STORY BY MAGICA QUARTET, ART BY HANOKAGE • YEN PRESS • 144 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

Adventures in the Key of Shoujo: Sailor Moon Vol. 4

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Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon, Vol. 4 | By Naoko Takeuchi | Published by Kodansha Comics USA | Rated: T, Ages 13+

After my aggravation over volume 3, in this volume, things start taking on a more serious angle with the remains of the team trying to make sense of new villains (Black Moon), and the kidnappings of Sailors Mars and Mercury. Chibiusa’s backstory begins to be fleshed out and Usagi starts to buckle under the stress of having all her friends snatched away from her. I was really frustrated by the previous story’s lack of tension despite all the danger they were in, but Takeuchi re-applies the pressure by bringing more people in on the fact that the Sailor Senshi are missing. So now things are moving faster, and this is better for the narrative in my humble opinion.

I find that despite Usagi discovering her royal lineage, she proves she’s still a teenager with her jealousy over Chibiusa hanging out with Mamoru so much. But as we learn more about Chibiusa, we discover that Usagi and she are more alike than they realize. Turns out Chibiusa and Usagi are related to each other and Chibiusa is from the thirtieth century. Using the two girls as a sounding board, I often wonder what would happen if I met my future descendants. Would I have anything in common with them? Or more importantly, if they were in trouble, would I fight for them? It’s interesting to speculate, especially since I had previously derided Usagi’s somewhat childish behaviour towards Chibiusa. Does this completely absolve Usagi? No, she can still go over her boundaries into somewhat irrational territory but I’ll give her a pass from now on, within reason.

A little window gets opened in relation to Sailor Jupiter. Since she was introduced, I haven’t seen sight nor hair of the poor girl, except when she’s needed to defeat evil, blah, blah, blah. But I get an teeny tiny window into her thoughts and how important the others have become to her, and she then perfectly articulates why the rest of the girls and Mamoru don’t look (on the surface at least) to be all that concerned about their missing comrades. Also, we see her and Motoki have a tender, quiet moment only to have it snatched away without Motoki knowing it’s happened. Is this a comment on the attrition of war and its effect on its soldiers? It would be interesting if I could confirm this. The manga runs its usual wire-thin line between tragedy and comedy, so all bets are off in this volume as to where Takeuchi takes this.

In my quest to understand what theories you could derive from Sailor Moon, I’m looking at the concept of Black Moon as villains. For the most part, the individuals fall into the Dark Kingdom’s mold of villainy for villainy’s sake. But the overarching idea behind them (and I’m trying to stay out of spoiler zones here) is they are rebelling against the established order. They don’t want to simply accept that this is how society has gone and they won’t agree with it. The problem for them is, like all rebellions, there’s nothing inherently wrong with not wanting to go with the rest of society, just that once you get out of talking and protesting about your ideals, you reach an impasse. You can either accept that change will take time and get into the trudge of eventually changing things, or you decide more drastic measures are required. Black Moon falls into the latter category. So they murdered and maimed their way to the top of Chibiusa’s world and now want to do the same to the present. So in this way, I would surmise, the lesson here is you can get what you want, the only thing you’ve got to do is not mind stepping on people to do it. It would be fantastic to think Takeuchi was trying to say something about the manga industry but I fear I’m grasping at straws here.

Another thing that pops up is the idea of pre-destiny. For those who do not know, predestiny is the idea that all the major events in your life were pre-ordained before you ever existed and continue after you’re gone. Two people suffer this problem: Chibiusa and Mamoru. Mamoru is in a brief (and I’m stumbling for the next word) spiritual conference with his dead lieutenants—the ones who were Queen Beryl’s resurrected minions but who later came to see the folly of their ways. He wonders why he was even reincarnated if he can’t protect Usagi. Was he fated to fail? No, say his lieutenants, because you’re here means that Usagi will be Queen and you King. While Mamoru begins to understand from that point on, it’s not decided or explained by the author whether Mamoru’s men know this truth about him because it is a truth or because they have advanced knowledge. Is it predestiny if it’s imparted by a person outside the need for a personal destiny? On Chibiusa’s side, was she always fated to find Usagi and the Sailor Senshi? Is the fact that she’s related to Usagi a deciding factor in her arrival in our present? Again, no answers, just concepts.

I have to say this volume has me thinking, rethinking and over-thinking the plot and concepts it brings with it. We haven’t even talked about the amount of pressure Usagi—that she alone finds herself under by the end of the volume. Things get very grim for our heroes—decidedly so. While I’m sure there’s an inner light or a new spell to call upon, I find myself hammering away at the cogs of the machine rather than the machine itself.

Hey, I’ve a homework assignment for all of you, if you’re interested. Can you tell me what part of Sailor Moon got you thinking beyond the page? What ideas or theories did it throw up? If not Sailor Moon, you can use any shoujo manga you like. I’ll print whatever you send me in next month’s Sailor Moon post. If your comment has spoilers for SM, then I’ll ask MJto post them for me so I don’t read them ^-^!

After my blood pressure problems with dealing with volume 3, I should be equally angry with this volume, but that one conversation with Sailor Jupiter took the wind right out of my sails. So is the series getting better for me? Certainly, and my initial hangups about the series (it’s too girly, the villains are wishy-washy) have largely evaporated due to Takeuchi’s layering of plot on plot, dialogue over dialogue as we start to see the whole thing start to coalesce into something close to a concept in motion. This series, despite the occasional landmine, continues to shine and hold my attention.

Manga Artifacts: Love Song

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Back in the 1990s, Matt Thorn labored hard to make Keiko Nishi a household name among American manga readers, translating six of her stories for VIZ. Two appeared in Four Shojo Stories alongside work by Moto Hagio and Shio Sato, and four appeared in a stand-alone volume called Love Song.

VIZ made a conscious effort to present Nishi’s work not just as comics, but as literature. Love Song boasted fancy endpapers — the kind you might find in the Everyman’s edition of Middlemarch — and a back cover blurb that defined shojo manga as “a literary genre of Japanese comics in which the relationships between characters are as meticulously crafted as the story’s action.” Lest the reader interpreted that statement to mean, “Here be romance comics,” the editor optimistically declared that shojo manga was “created by women for everyone!”

Though Nishi didn’t catch on with Western readers, it’s easy to see why Thorn championed her work: she’s a terrific, versatile storyteller, equally capable of writing light-hearted fantasies and character studies of deeply damaged people. Of the four stories that appear in Love Song, two are standouts: “Jewels of the Seaside,” a black comedy about three sisters who compete for the same man’s affection, with disastrous results, and “The Skin of Her Heart,” a sci-fi tale about a young woman torn between what she wants and what her mother wants for her. The other two stories — “Love Song” and “The Signal Goes Blink, Blink” — are also strong, if more conventional. “Love Song” focuses on an angry young woman who dominates her saintly boyfriend, while “The Signal Goes Blink, Blink” explores how fame transforms the life of a bullied teen.

Common to all four stories is a palpable sense of longing. The characters desperately seek human connection, but face genuine obstacles to their happiness. Yoshio Yamada, hero of “Signal,” is a perfect example: he’s the kind of small, quiet person whose shyness makes him a natural target for other kids’ scorn. (Even his own family detests him for his weakness.) When his newly discovered healing abilities land him television appearances, he worries what will happen if his powers fail him — not because he fears the stigma of being discredited, but because he fears being alone. “I’m afraid that if I lose this power, I’ll just go back to being a nobody again,” he tells his agent. “Are those people going to play with me? Will they come to school with me?”

The female protagonists of “Love Song” and “Skin of Her Heart” are also dissatisfied, though neither can fully articulate what they want. Saki, the heroine of “Love Song,” is perplexed by the intensity of her anger; though she readily admits that she was scarred by her first romantic experience, that alone cannot explain the cruel delight she takes in manipulating her current boyfriend. Lin-Lin, protagonist of “Skin,” also has difficulty pinpointing the source of her frustration, rejecting a suitor who could solve all of her financial and family problems. Only in the final pages of the story does she realize that moving to another space colony might change her life in ways that would help her “learn to open my heart to someone.”

Even the “Seaside” sisters are prisoners of their own desires. All three fancy their cousin Daniel, a handsome, polite young man, but each secretly worries that she compares unfavorably with her siblings. Their desperation is played for macabre laughs — poison factors into the narrative — but each sister’s pain and fear of rejection is very real; the punchline of the story is simultaneously amusing and horrifying, as we realize the true cost of their insecurities.

Nishi’s artwork is the perfect vehicle for such nuanced character studies, at times precise, elegant, and naturalistic, and at times loose and sketchy, with the white of the page playing an important role in underscoring the emotional distance between her characters. Her minimalist approach won’t be to every shojo fan’s liking, but she demonstrates that it’s perfectly possible to convey the interior lives of her characters without resorting to the kind of visual shorthands — flowers, sweatdrops, nosebleeds — that have been overused in contemporary shojo manga.

Readers wishing to track down a copy of Love Song should know that the title is officially out of print. (You won’t find it listed anywhere on the VIZ website.) Unlike Four Shojo Stories or A, A’, however, Love Song is still relatively easy to obtain through online retailers like Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and eBay. Highly recommended.

Manga Artifacts is a monthly feature exploring older, out-of-print manga published in the 1980s and 1990s. For a fuller description of the series’ purpose, see the inaugural column.

LOVE SONG • BY KEIKO NISHI • VIZ • 208 pp. • NO RATING

Manga Artifacts: Love Song

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Back in the 1990s, Rachel Thorn labored hard to make Keiko Nishi a household name among American manga readers, translating six of her stories for VIZ. Two appeared in Four Shojo Stories alongside work by Moto Hagio and Shio Sato, and four appeared in a stand-alone volume called Love Song.

VIZ made a conscious effort to present Nishi’s work not just as comics, but as literature. Love Song boasted fancy endpapers — the kind you might find in the Everyman’s edition of Middlemarch — and a back cover blurb that defined shojo manga as “a literary genre of Japanese comics in which the relationships between characters are as meticulously crafted as the story’s action.” Lest the reader interpreted that statement to mean, “Here be romance comics,” the editor optimistically declared that shojo manga was “created by women for everyone!”

Though Nishi didn’t catch on with Western readers, it’s easy to see why Thorn championed her work: she’s a terrific, versatile storyteller, equally capable of writing light-hearted fantasies and character studies of deeply damaged people. Of the four stories that appear in Love Song, two are standouts: “Jewels of the Seaside,” a black comedy about three sisters who compete for the same man’s affection, with disastrous results, and “The Skin of Her Heart,” a sci-fi tale about a young woman torn between what she wants and what her mother wants for her. The other two stories — “Love Song” and “The Signal Goes Blink, Blink” — are also strong, if more conventional. “Love Song” focuses on an angry young woman who dominates her saintly boyfriend, while “The Signal Goes Blink, Blink” explores how fame transforms the life of a bullied teen.

Common to all four stories is a palpable sense of longing. The characters desperately seek human connection, but face genuine obstacles to their happiness. Yoshio Yamada, hero of “Signal,” is a perfect example: he’s the kind of small, quiet person whose shyness makes him a natural target for other kids’ scorn. (Even his own family detests him for his weakness.) When his newly discovered healing abilities land him television appearances, he worries what will happen if his powers fail him — not because he fears the stigma of being discredited, but because he fears being alone. “I’m afraid that if I lose this power, I’ll just go back to being a nobody again,” he tells his agent. “Are those people going to play with me? Will they come to school with me?”

The female protagonists of “Love Song” and “Skin of Her Heart” are also dissatisfied, though neither can fully articulate what they want. Saki, the heroine of “Love Song,” is perplexed by the intensity of her anger; though she readily admits that she was scarred by her first romantic experience, that alone cannot explain the cruel delight she takes in manipulating her current boyfriend. Lin-Lin, protagonist of “Skin,” also has difficulty pinpointing the source of her frustration, rejecting a suitor who could solve all of her financial and family problems. Only in the final pages of the story does she realize that moving to another space colony might change her life in ways that would help her “learn to open my heart to someone.”

Even the “Seaside” sisters are prisoners of their own desires. All three fancy their cousin Daniel, a handsome, polite young man, but each secretly worries that she compares unfavorably with her siblings. Their desperation is played for macabre laughs — poison factors into the narrative — but each sister’s pain and fear of rejection is very real; the punchline of the story is simultaneously amusing and horrifying, as we realize the true cost of their insecurities.

Nishi’s artwork is the perfect vehicle for such nuanced character studies, at times precise, elegant, and naturalistic, and at times loose and sketchy, with the white of the page playing an important role in underscoring the emotional distance between her characters. Her minimalist approach won’t be to every shojo fan’s liking, but she demonstrates that it’s perfectly possible to convey the interior lives of her characters without resorting to the kind of visual shorthands — flowers, sweatdrops, nosebleeds — that have been overused in contemporary shojo manga.

Readers wishing to track down a copy of Love Song should know that the title is officially out of print. (You won’t find it listed anywhere on the VIZ website.) Unlike Four Shojo Stories or A, A’, however, Love Song is still relatively easy to obtain through online retailers like Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and eBay. Highly recommended.

Manga Artifacts is a monthly feature exploring older, out-of-print manga published in the 1980s and 1990s. For a fuller description of the series’ purpose, see the inaugural column.

LOVE SONG • BY KEIKO NISHI • VIZ • 208 pp. • NO RATING

Adventures in the Key of Shoujo: Sailor Moon Vol. 3

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Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon, Vol. 3 | By Naoko Takeuchi | Published by Kodansha Comics USA | Rated: T, Ages 13+

Escalation and dissipation could be the by-words of this volume of Sailor Moon and oh, Lordy, is it interesting! To illustrate my point, I use science, specifically stellar physics. In some stars, after a star has used up its fuel, which it burns through Hydrogen to produce a nuclear fusion reaction, it will start to bloat as the star fuses helium to carbon and oxygen. The pressure within this star has been building since fusion stopped and now it’s reached its breaking point. Solar layer upon layer will violently blow itself off until all that is left is a white dwarf, a smaller, brighter version of the original, full of its own mysteries.

It is this analogy that works for me in my attempt to explain the events of this volume. We have the conclusion of the fight with the Dark Kingdom. Queen Metalia and Queen Beryl (how many queens can you have?) are in the ascendant. The team is desperately trying to save Usagi from a brainwashed Mamoru, who has grabbed her in an attempt to get the Legendary Crystal. Their attempts cause the team to travel to the frozen wastes of the Arctic circle.

For her part, Usagi is trapped inside the Legendary Crystal. After sacrificing herself to free Mamoru, Usagi finds herself in possession of a newfound energy with which to defeat the rulers of the Dark Kingdom. I have to say I like how it’s resolved—not in a rush nor ponderous fashion, just somewhere in between. Takeuchi ties up most of the elements from this arc, sets them into motion for the next arc, all while allowing fans who’ve wanted a resolution to get it without going “OK, show’s over folks! Goodnight!”

Now, I have problems with the next arc’s beginning. We are introduced to the new villains, Black Moon, who’s plan is to… I don’t have a clue. (Really, the villains in this series sometimes give the appearance of “Bwa-ha-ha-ha! Champions of Justice, fear me, for I am…!” being villainous just for the sake of being villainous) During a battle with the Senshi, they kidnap Sailor Mars. And then don’t do anything remotely villainous with her. Or attack the team again. Wait, what? I don’t mind the idea of dissipation, it’s just that the team lose all momentum. Even with Mars missing, they don’t seem that pushed, at least in my mind. They even deflect questions in school as to where Mars is. Doesn’t this girl have friends or family outside of the Sailor Senshi? Has anyone filed an APB or what? Am I being too critical? Am I only one who feels that this kind of dissipation after such an epic fight is kind of a letdown? I understand that we have a change of pace after the Dark Kingdom’s “Bwa-ha-ha-ha!” methodology but there’s no reason to suspect or even hint that the bad guys are mistreating Mars for their own purposes. At least, Beryl brainwashes Mamoru.

But the most glaring problem I have got is with Chibi-Usagi (or Chibiusa as she’s later to be know as). She’s a smaller version of Usagi who appears out of, literally, thin air, holding a gun (!) to Usagi’s head and demanding the Legendary Crystal from her. To top things off, she’s clingy towards Mamoru, brainwashes Usagi’s parents into letting her stay with them, has a magical key to something that nobody knows anything about. Luna says she’ll investigate but that she doesn’t suspect that Chibiusa is dangerous. Wait, what? Luna was intensely distrustful of Mamoru when he first appeared as Tuxedo Mask, and tried to stop Usagi from seeing him. But Chibiusa is just fine, no trouble. Oh, my brain hurts so badly. If Takeuchi’s plan was to confuse and annoy me, she’s been successful. Is this confusing to anyone else? What is the point of introducing a new adversary, knocking out a member of the team and then introducing a (frankly) baffling new character, inside half a tankoban? How does this help anyone? I am prepared to suspend judgement until I read the next volume but something has to give. I am starting to fray at the edges and I can only give so much leeway.

On a more positive note, the deranged second half also allows me to get some perspective on the overall view of the series. We’re nearly a quarter into the book’s run and we’re still no closer to even a hint at where the series is headed. I like this insofar as I can understand if Takeuchi wants to take time out to set up the next chess battle. Where I think the series’ strength lies is in the backstory. We now know that the Senshi and Mamoru are reincarnations of the People of the Moon and the Prince of Earth (Prince Endymion) respectively. But even after learning all that, we still don’t know their origins as Moon citizens (I never thought I would write that outside of a Gerry Anderson review). But the nicest part of the whole Moon Kingdom is when Usagi chooses to send all of them back to Earth instead of living on the now rebuilt Royal Castle grounds. They’ve got family who love them, back on Earth, so Usagi doesn’t want then to give that up. So it’s back to the only life they’ve known. It’s a nice touch, I like it.

It’s frustrating to read such excellent character development in one part and be baffled by another. I know Takeuchi isn’t doing it deliberately but I’m left asking why she makes her cast take on near insurmountable obstacles then act like total dopes the minute things hit easy street. And by the bye, things haven’t hit easy street because Sailor Mars is still missing!

Artwise, I still am impressed by Takeuchi and her ability to mix the sublime with the ordinary. Even if I don’t like Chibiusa, she’s an interesting character from a design point of view. She looks like a younger version of Usagi, naturally. But unlike more modern young characters in anime/manga, she’s not done from a fetish view. Maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see, but it’s nice to see someone have a higher sense of decorum (God, when did I start sounding like my parents?). Also, I’m happy to report that I finally am starting to be able to tell the difference between the Senshi! Maybe it’s me becoming accustomed to Takeuchi’s art style or maybe it was the handy inside pages at the beginning of the manga telling us who everyone is. I think Sailor Venus and Sailor Jupiter gave me the most trouble as they have similar hairstyles. But it’s becoming clearer—I’m starting to learn the importance of sticking with a series and its inherent value of having names to the faces.

Sailor Moon is great but this volume was trying for me, more specifically the second half with its stop-start-stop plotting. But that’s the nature of the beast, it seems. I’m learning pacing structure within a multi-volume series (something I could never be bothered to do before) and also that for every step you take forward as a reader you must be prepared to take a few steps back, occasionally, (or a lot, if you’re a person who has ever read Stephanie Meyer) at the behest of the author. With a few gripes, minor ones given my overall enjoyment of the series, I will recommend to you, Sailor Moon Volume 3.

In some respects, a white dwarf’s life is more interesting then its previous one. As a normal star it’s only concern is keeping itself going. But as a white dwarf, it faces an eternity as it burns brightly. It will fade one day as all things do. But until it does it will be a shining beacon in space, drawing in people as they gaze at it in wonder.

The Earl & The Fairy, Vol. 1

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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+)