Discussion, Resources, Roundtables, & Reviews
I was lucky enough to take part in a lively discussion on Takako Shimura’s Wandering Son (Fantagraphics), which will air at Manga Out Loud sometime soon. We all took a few minutes to ponder the usefulness of end notes. I’m very pro on the subject. I think they almost always add value and let the translator and adapter focus on flow and voice rather than info-dump. But I wanted to throw the topic out for discussion. Notes: yay, nay, or depends?
Whenever I see Ryoichi Ikegami’s name attached to a project, I know two things: first, that the manga will be beautifully illustrated, and second, that the plot will be completely nuts. Samurai Crusader, a globe-trotting, name-dropping adventure from the early 1990s, provides an instructive example. The story revolves around a young martial artist who teams up with struggling novelist Ernest Hemingway — yes, that Ernest Hemingway — to prevent an unscrupulous Japanese general from invading Shanghai with Nazi assistance. And if the thought of Hemingway as a butt-kicking action hero isn’t crazy enough, Ikeda and writer Hiroi Oji populate the story with such colorful bit players as a sadistic female military general, a bare-breasted priestess, an axe-wielding Aryan warrior, a demon whisperer, and a ninja with razor-sharp teeth. Ikeda and Oji don’t skimp on the cameos, either; Pablo Picasso, Joseph Goebbels, and Hermann Goering all have brief but memorable walk-on roles, as do Hitler and Emperor Akihito.
This motley assortment of characters are all chasing Kusanagi, a Japanese sword so expertly crafted that it can sever a canon in two. But Kusanagi isn’t just an elegant weapon; it’s a mystical object, capable of bestowing great power on its owner. The Nazis and the Japanese military alike believe that Kusanagi is the key to world domination, and double-cross each other in hopes of stealing it from the Oritsuin clan, a noble Japanese family. Kumomaru, the youngest member of the Oritsuins, is determined to stop both parties from abusing Kusanagi’s power, racing from Paris to Shanghai in a valiant effort to foil Japanese imperial ambitions in China. Along the way Kumomaru befriends Hemingway, beds a sexy French cat burglar, and falls in with a gang of Chinese warriors who disguise themselves as cooks. (As a sign of just how badass these cook-warriors are, each high-ranking solider in the organization has a dragon tattoo… on his tongue.)
As awesomely silly as the plot may be, the real attraction of Samurai Crusader is the art. The period settings provide Ikegami a swell excuse to draw zeppelins and biplanes, Nazi uniforms and samurai formal wear, French ballrooms and Chinese dives. No detail goes overlooked; even the most inconsequential characters’ clothing is meticulously rendered, and the street lamps in every city are drawn with such care as to distinguish a Parisian boulevard from a Shanghai corner.
The character designs, too, are arresting in their specificity; Ikegami’s great strength as an artist is his ability to convey character through odd facial features and posture, whether he’s drawing a crooked industrialist or a street urchin. Though his lead characters are impossibly attractive, Ikegami’s best creation, by far, is Juzo, a stealthy martial artist with the most distinctive set of choppers since James Bond crossed paths with Jaws. Juzo’s shark-like teeth, wild hair, and demonic squint make him an excellent foil for the handsome Kumomaru; Juzo moves with the lethal precision of a cobra, twisting his body into extraordinary positions to better deploy his arsenal of knives, wires, words, and pistols. Oh, and those teeth? They make swell weapons, too.
The only downside to Samurai Crusader is the dialogue. Though the story unfurls at a furious pace, the story grinds to a halt whenever Kumomaru crosses paths with his arch-nemesis, the deluded General Kamishima. Their all-caps exchanges feel more like policy discussions than real arguments, despite Ikegami’s best efforts to stage the scenes as dramatically as possible. Sweat drops bead, veins pulse and pop, but Ikegami can’t disguise the fact that these speeches are kind of a drag. (Sample: “Independence for all of Asia should be the way of Japan! We need national self-determination!”) What redeems these windy passages are the shoot-outs, tank fights, and sword play that proceed and follow them; aside from John Woo and Andrew Lau, few people can make bloodletting look as elegant as Ikegami does.
Perhaps the best way to summarize Samurai Crusader‘s appeal is to say that it has all the virtues of Crying Freeman and Wounded Man — crazy action scenes, sexy leads, mustache-twirling villains — without the copious nudity and sexual violence that can give even the most committed manga fan pause. Readers interested in tracking down copies should note that all three volumes of Samurai Crusader are out of print, though reasonably priced copies are readily available on Amazon and eBay. Highly recommended.
SAMURAI CRUSADER: THE KUMOMARU CHRONICLES, VOLS. 1-3 • STORY BY HIROI OJI, ART BY RYOICHI IKEGAMI • VIZ COMMUNICATIONS, INC. • NO RATING
Whenever I see Ryoichi Ikegami’s name attached to a project, I know two things: first, that the manga will be beautifully illustrated, and second, that the plot will be completely nuts.
Samurai Crusader, a globe-trotting, name-dropping adventure from the early 1990s, provides an instructive example. The story revolves around a young martial artist who teams up with struggling novelist Ernest Hemingway — yes, that Ernest Hemingway — to prevent an unscrupulous Japanese general from invading Shanghai with Nazi assistance. And if the thought of Hemingway as a butt-kicking action hero isn’t crazy enough, Ikeda and writer Hiroi Oji populate the story with such colorful bit players as a sadistic female military general, a bare-breasted priestess, an axe-wielding Aryan warrior, a demon whisperer, and a ninja with razor-sharp teeth. Ikeda and Oji don’t skimp on the cameos, either; Pablo Picasso, Joseph Goebbels, and Hermann Goering all have brief but memorable walk-on roles, as do Hitler and Emperor Akihito.
This motley assortment of characters are all chasing Kusanagi, a Japanese sword so expertly crafted that it can sever a canon in two. But Kusanagi isn’t just an elegant weapon; it’s a mystical object, capable of bestowing great power on its owner. The Nazis and the Japanese military alike believe that Kusanagi is the key to world domination, and double-cross each other in hopes of stealing it from the Oritsuin clan, a noble Japanese family. Kumomaru, the youngest member of the Oritsuins, is determined to stop both parties from abusing Kusanagi’s power, racing from Paris to Shanghai in a valiant effort to foil Japanese imperial ambitions in China. Along the way Kumomaru befriends Hemingway, beds a sexy French cat burglar, and falls in with a gang of Chinese warriors who disguise themselves as cooks. (As a sign of just how badass these cook-warriors are, each high-ranking solider in the organization has a dragon tattoo… on his tongue.)
As awesomely silly as the plot may be, the real attraction of Samurai Crusader is the art. The period settings provide Ikegami a swell excuse to draw zeppelins and biplanes, Nazi uniforms and samurai formal wear, French ballrooms and Chinese dives. No detail goes overlooked; even the most inconsequential characters’ clothing is meticulously rendered, and the street lamps in every city are drawn with such care as to distinguish a Parisian boulevard from a Shanghai corner.
The character designs, too, are arresting in their specificity; Ikegami’s great strength as an artist is his ability to convey character through odd facial features and posture, whether he’s drawing a crooked industrialist or a street urchin. Though his lead characters are impossibly attractive, Ikegami’s best creation, by far, is Juzo, a stealthy martial artist with the most distinctive set of choppers since James Bond crossed paths with Jaws. Juzo’s shark-like teeth, wild hair, and demonic squint make him an excellent foil for the handsome Kumomaru; Juzo moves with the lethal precision of a cobra, twisting his body into extraordinary positions to better deploy his arsenal of knives, wires, words, and pistols. Oh, and those teeth? They make swell weapons, too.
The only downside to Samurai Crusader is the dialogue. Though the story unfurls at a furious pace, the story grinds to a halt whenever Kumomaru crosses paths with his arch-nemesis, the deluded General Kamishima. Their all-caps exchanges feel more like policy discussions than real arguments, despite Ikegami’s best efforts to stage the scenes as dramatically as possible. Sweat drops bead, veins pulse and pop, but Ikegami can’t disguise the fact that these speeches are kind of a drag. (Sample: “Independence for all of Asia should be the way of Japan! We need national self-determination!”) What redeems these windy passages are the shoot-outs, tank fights, and sword play that proceed and follow them; aside from John Woo and Andrew Lau, few people can make bloodletting look as elegant as Ikegami does.
Perhaps the best way to summarize Samurai Crusader‘s appeal is to say that it has all the virtues of Crying Freeman and Wounded Man — crazy action scenes, sexy leads, mustache-twirling villains — without the copious nudity and sexual violence that can give even the most committed manga fan pause. Readers interested in tracking down copies should note that all three volumes of Samurai Crusader are out of print, though reasonably priced copies are readily available on Amazon and eBay. Highly recommended.
SAMURAI CRUSADER: THE KUMOMARU CHRONICLES, VOLS. 1-3 • STORY BY HIROI OJI, ART BY RYOICHI IKEGAMI • VIZ COMMUNICATIONS, INC. • NO RATING
By Koji Kumeta. Released in Japan by Kodansha, serialization ongoing in the magazine Weekly Shonen Magazine. Released in North America by Kodansha Comics.
Fans of this series may know that the translator/adaptor for the first four volumes was Joyce Aurino. She then left, and as of Volume 5 the translator was David Ury. Well, either Kodansha has a policy of switching up every few volumes, or this series burns translators out faster than most (the latter is more likely), as we now have a third translator, Joshua Weeks. Joshua has translated Pink Innocent, I Am Here!, and Panic x Panic for Del Rey in the past. How will he be able to handle the adaptation nightmare that is Zetsubou-sensei?
Well, for the most part, pretty well. The one piece of bad news is that there are even fewer endnotes than ever. I think Kodansha has realized that most folks don’t care who Mitsui-kun is or why he was hospitalized, and that explaining these would make the book 26 pages longer. For the most part the ‘Despair list’ references are ignored, and we just get footnotes when it’;s an important piece of plot or dialogue, such as Setsubun, or Giri Chocolate. I think I’m fighting a losing battle caring about this, so will try to shut up from now on.
That said, the actual translation is pretty excellent. Nozomu is despairing again, something that makes me happier than words can say. Kiri’s “Don’t Open” is also back to sounding more like what I was used to with earlier volumes. In general, though, it’s an excellent translation because I didn’t really notice it. There weren’t the continuity errors of past volumes that made me angry that Del Rey never credited an editor. (Kodansha does not either, in case you were curious.) So hooray, I am pleased and can now move on to talking about the actual volume.
The volume starts off with three very “Japanese” stories, and they’re possibly the weakest in the collection. That said, I was amused at Rin’s cherry chocolate factory, a giant cynical snarl at the Valentine’s Day industry in Japan. As the chapters go on we begin to discuss issues that are more “universal”, such as overaccessorizing, biased viewpoints, and the concept of “overcharging”. My two favorites were the ones that resonated with me the most, as Nozomu talks about people who try to look down on their betters with condescension, and trying to pretend that major decisions and announcements are really no big deal.
As the series has gone on, we’ve moved from a series driven by the insanity of its cast to one where it’s all about observational humor, so it’s no surprise that there’s not as much to discuss here character-wise. There are no major murder sprees from Chiri; in fact, her scariest moment is in a courtroom scene where she proves that the line between funny and terrifying is microscopically thin. We do see Jinroku-sensei has a huge tattooed back (implying he was once a yakuza, though this isn’t in the notes), and see the dangers of Chie-sensei being the serious type who doesn’t usually joke. My favorite character bit of humor was probably Manami, who’s absent from the overcharging chapter because she’s far too busy with housework, noting “Housewives don’t have time to recharge.”
Oh yes, one other reference I loved that wasn’t spelled out. As this volume was being written, the first anime series was broadcast. This meant that some of the characters were becoming associated with their voice actresses. Particularly Rin, who Kumeta Koji was very amused to see was voiced by Akiko Yajima, best known in Japan as “Crayon Shin-chan”. As a result, at the end of this volume and in subsequent ones, Rin will appear with her ass facing the reader, in tribute to Shin-chan’s tendencies. (Rin also joins the class as a student this volume, but will continue to be a “semi-regular”, only showing up when she needs to.)
I could go on about this series for a while, as you can see. And I’m pleased to see that many of the issues I had with prior volumes in terms of the editing and continuity seem to have been sorted out. Definitely recommended (though if you read Japanese, google for the Kumetan Wiki to find all the references you’re missing).
By Karuho Shiina. Released in Japan by Shueisha, serialization ongoing in the magazine Bessatsu Margaret (“Betsuma”). Released in North America by Viz.
I had a lot of questions at the end of Volume 8 that I wanted answered. Luckily, most of them are answered here, as we get a lot of resolution to various plot tentacles and head closer towards our leads becoming a couple. Though, word of warning, we still aren’t there yet.
I know that the focus of this volume is Sawako and Kazehaya, but I have to start off here by talking about Kento. Given that our two leads have so much trouble communicating, it’s somehow incredibly appropriate that everything that goes wrong in this volume (as well as one last thing going right) is the result of Kento simply talking and talking and NEVER SHUTTING UP. He is cheerfully trying to do what he thinks is best for everyone – but he’s wrong, and it takes the entire volume and a giant slap in the face from Kurumi (I hope people cheered) to make him see that. And so, when he realizes that his big mouth and misconceptions have screwed over everyone to date? He immediately goes to Sawako to talk to her some more, and tell her that he was totally wrong and he wished her good luck with Kazehaya. He’s such a contrast to everyone else in this manga my jaw almost drops.
Speaking of Kurumi, I never thought she’d become an audience identification character, but her ran to Sawako halfway through the book could almost have been the reader in many ways. It’s very easy to feel bad for her, even if you did dislike her at first. After all that sneaking around, she confessed straight out – and was rejected straight out. And now seeing the girl that she was rejected for being a giant coward is just too much to bear.
Is she really being cowardly, though? In many ways the entire plot of this series is ‘poor communication kills’, but nowhere is it hammered home more than in this volume, where not a page goes by without Kazehaya or Sawako misinterpreting each other, due to lack of confidence, poor verbal skills, and a whole lot of assumptions. It’s less surprising with Sawako, whose poor interpersonal skills are brought up when it’s noted how far she’s come with everyone EXCEPT Kazehaya. As for him, he gets less sympathy from most of the cast, especially Pin, who rather cruelly tells him to “just give up on her.”
Ayane and Chizu don’t get as much to do here except worry about their friend and constantly try to stop Kento from opening his mouth. Ayane’s reaction to Kento admitting he may have screwed things up is the comedic highlight of the volume. And Ryu too is almost absent, but that’s because he only gets involved when absolutely necessary – his line to Sawako “I don’t know if I should be saying this, but you need to explain yourself better.” is of course the entire book condensed into one remark. It’s also great that he tells her where Kazehaya is at the end.
“Did my words say what I wanted them to?” And so Sawako rushes off to find Kazehaya, and tracks him down to their classroom. And then… the book ends, in what is possibly one of the most frustrating cliffhangers I’ve seen in manga. We *desperately* want to see this resolved, want these two to finally get it, to see what they mean to each other. But now we must wait for Volume 10. In the meantime, what a great series.
Although the final three volumes of The Prince of Tennis contain many ridiculous things and are, objectively speaking, really not that good, I still think the story wraps up reasonably well.
Volume 40 begins with the tail end of the set between Seishun’s captain, Tezuka, and Sanada of the Rikkai team. Tezuka is dragging things out to buy time for absentee Ryoma to arrive, and ultimately ends up losing. Then Momoshiro and Kaidou lose, but not before we get this sentence that has never been written before at any time in the course of human history: “The tornado snake won’t work against a player with red eyes.” Good to know, that.
Fuji is up next, taking on a player with the ability to mimic anyone’s ability. And who should he emulate but Tezuka, so we get a match that is drawn like the two of these guys playing against each other. Somehow I think this was intended to appeal to the fujoshi, but I’m certainly not complaining. “Maybe we’ve both been avoiding facing off against each other. Because we’re afraid of finding out who’s better,” Fuji thinks at one point. Too bad the promise of a real face-off between them is not realized before the end of the series.
Fuji wins, so we move briskly on to the second doubles round, and somewhere around here Ryoma arrives with, and I am quoting the back cover here, “a wicked case of amnesia.” It’s completely stupid, and while Oishi and Eiji stall for time, various players (including rivals) go reacquaint Ryoma with his tennis memories by playing him off-camera. Why even employ an amnesia plot if it’s going to be cured so simply? It just makes me shake my head.
Anyway, it should be no surprise to anyone at all that Ryoma regains his memory and, though he starts off his match at a disadvantage, he soon summons the ultimate skill—“the pinnacle of perfection”—with which to vanquish his opponent. (Everyone can tell that he has achieved this because white light bursts from his body. As it often does in tennis.) And Ryoma’s dad drops by to tell everyone this is happening because Ryoma is playing simply for the joy of the game, and so that everyone can finally learn that Ryoma is the son of the famous Samurai Nanjirou. So, Seishun wins and there’s a montage while the lyrics of a song penned by Takeshi Konomi scroll by. It’s all very silly. There’s also a brief prose epilogue depicting the third years’ graduation.
I just really don’t know what to say about The Prince of Tennis at this point. In the pursuit of ways to make games even more exciting, Konomi crossed my personal “suspension of disbelief” border with all these physically observable glowy states. Somehow, I was willing to accept Inui making instant probability calculations or Tezuka being able to control his spin so well that all return shots come directly to his location, but make a guy sparkly and have someone in the stands cry, “L-look at that! All his aura’s concentrated around his left arm!!” and it’s suddenly too much for me to take. Still, it’s not like the series was ever so fabulous that I’m actively disappointed. Just resigned.
Anyway, thus concludes The Prince of Tennis. The sequel, Shin Prince of Tennis (“Shin” means “new”), is currently serialized in Jump SQ magazine. The fifth collected volume came out in March of this year. It lamentably remains unlicensed for US release.
You’ve all asked yourself this question, don’t deny it. “What,” you’ve wondered, “would happen if a blond-haired, blue-eyed American teen-ager was inadvertently sent back in time to Ancient Egypt?” As with so many unanswered questions in this life, manga can help you. Specifically, Chieko Hosokawa can help you with Crest of the Royal Family, which has been in serialization in Akita Shoten’s Princess Magazine since 1976.
“Tell me more!” you plead. Well, I’ll let Wikipedia do the initial heavy lifting, because if anyone’s going to be accused of making crazy stuff up, at least Wikipedia is used to those charges:
The main character is Carol, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed American teenager from a wealthy family with an interest in Egyptology studying in Cairo. When her mentor discovers the tomb of a young pharaoh, a curse is put on the excavation team and Carol. The curse sends her back in time to ancient Egypt, where she becomes embroiled in the affairs of Egypt and other ancient countries such as Assyria and Babylonia. Carol meets Memphis, a handsome young pharaoh whose tomb she excavated in modern times. Despite his headstrong and at first violent nature, they fall deeply in love. This angers Memphis’s half-sister, the Priestess Isis, who has longed to marry him. Carol, due to her exotic looks and curious ability to tell the future, becomes a major player in ancient history.
Now I ask you, what sane person could resist thousands of pages of glittery political intrigue set in the cradle of civilization? (Don’t answer that. Seriously. If you’ve started to type a rueful, knowing comment to the effect that there’s simply no market for this kind of thing, I beg you to stop, because that is decidedly not in The Spirit of the Thing.)
From what I can gather, Carol gets kidnapped a lot. Blond hair and a knack for Egyptology only carry one so far in this life, or past lives, and her seemingly eerie prescience gets her in a lot of trouble.
This may be the longest shôjo series I’ve ever seen. The 55th volume was published a little over a year ago, and most sources indicate that it’s ongoing, but I’m not sure. As near as I can tell, it’s never been adapted into an anime series, which makes its enduring presence in Princess even more intriguing. I’m sure things slog along the way, and most sources indicate that Carol can be a victim with a capital “V,” not to mention the fact that the whole “Let’s listen to the white lady, she must know things” notion could get deeply offensive.
But really, over 50 volumes of ancient Egyptian faux-history glazed over with shôjo sparkle? I know it will probably never happen, but I’d totally read it if it did.
It was a happy day in my house when I realized I had two volumes of Story of Saiunkoku stacked up to read. This manga featuring a heroine who is dedicated to her dream of becoming a civil servant and the quirky men who surround her is one of my favorite current series. I’ve seen a bit of the anime adaptation of this series, so these early volumes have a feeling of pleasant nostalgia as I see characters I’m already familiar with in manga form.
As the third volume opens Shurei has left her position as royal consort and is back to her old life with her family, worrying about repairing her house and studying again for the civil service exam that she’s unable to take because she’s a woman. The emperor Ryuki sends her letters signed “Lord Anonymous” every day, along with ridiculous presents like buckets of flowers, a giant block of ice, and far too many hard boiled eggs. It is summer, the season when Shurei’s mother died. Shurei doesn’t respond to the Emperor’s overtures, thinking “If I get too worked up I’ll just overheat myself in this weather. It’s a waste of energy and of sweat…which means a waste of household resources!” Shurei stumbles across a scruffy bearded man who has collapsed near her house. She invites him inside for a meal, and when he exhibits superior staff-fighting skills when subduing an errant chicken, Seiran recognizes him as a man named Ensei. Ensei and Seiran have the type of bickering relationship that I think is only exhibited by people who’ve been through a war together. Ensei decides to stick around for awhile. Shurei gets a taste of the civil servant’s life when she’s given the opportunity to work for the Minister of the Treasury in the Outer Palace. She has to masquerade as a boy, but she’s delighted to be given the opportunity to work even if it is only temporary.
Shurei’s new boss is the incredibly strict Minister Ko, who always wears an elaborate mask whenever he is in the presence of other people. Ryuki continues to be an intriguing mixture of innocence and cleverness. While he’s imagining the horror of Shurei marrying Seiran, he is actually working hard to change the laws in his country that limit Shurei’s opportunities. His enthusiasm might derail the entire process. Shurei struggles through the summer month, dealing with her fears of thunderstorms that trigger memories of the day her mother died. Ensei’s lighthearted personality goes a long way in making sure she doesn’t get too depressed. One of the reasons why I like this series so much is that even though it might sound like a typical reverse harem scenario, Story of Saiunkoku has so much depth. The idea of romance is a burden more than anything else to Shurei, because she’s so focused on achieving her goals. While she’s surrounded by cute men who want to support her, they all have their own concerns as well as their own friendships to deal with.
There’s some intrigue and action as Ensei’s true identity is revealed. Ensei and Shurei take refuge from bandits in the house of a nobleman who is almost distractingly beautiful. They are aiding a pair of Sa bandit children who attempted to rob the treasury earlier. Their mysterious benefactor doesn’t seem to mind being invaded by sudden house guests, and Shurei notices that his hair and mannerisms seem a little familiar. Ryuki shows up at Shurei’s house for a “Midnight Tryst” only to find out that she’s gone somewhere with the mysterious Ensei. Ryuki, Seiran, Koyu, and Shuei decide to crash the party too, since Ensei is still being targeted for attack.
I like that there are so many side stories that aren’t centered on the heroine. We get a glimpse of the possibility of romance for Shurei’s father as he spends time talking to a noblewoman who is willing to drink his horrible tea in order to converse with him. The relationship between Shurei’s uncle and Minister Ko has hints of a long shared past, and Ensei undergoes a transformation that isn’t only confined to his physical appearance when he shaves off his beard and decides to start applying himself to his work. Even Shurei’s opportunity to take the civil service exam isn’t only for her, as Koyu informs her that she has to pass with extremely high marks in order to be an example that will help other women follow in her footsteps. One of the things I like about the adaptation is the way so many of the characters have a distinctive way of speaking. Ryuki’s speech is the most formal, as you would expect from his position as emperor. The ragamuffin Sa bandit children speak in grand excited tones, as though their actions and thoughts are the most important and dramatic things in the world.
These volumes were very satisfying, and I’m looking forward to reading more. This is the type of series that I know I’ll keep on my shelves for a long time because I know I’ll enjoy reading it.
Review copy of Volume 4 provided by the publisher.
MJ: Well, hello Michelle! Once again, it feels like forever since we’ve been here!
MICHELLE: It does! Why do we ever leave, anyway? We could just dwell safe within our little Off the Shelf cocoon.
MJ: Sounds like bliss.
MICHELLE: Doesn’t it? Stupid real life.
So let’s distract ourselves! Got any completely made-up drama that you’d like to contemplate for a while?
MJ: I do, but you first!
MICHELLE: Well, if you insist!
Not only are both of my selections this evening published by Kodansha Comics, but each is also the first volume of a new series and based on a CAPCOM video game. I’m not much of a game aficionado, so I can’t speak to how well these manga do at capturing the essence of their respective game universes, but I can at least consider how they work for new readers. I’ll start with Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, a five-volume seinen series that originally ran in Bessatsu Young Magazine. I’ve never played the game, but I do love a good mystery, so I hoped that I would like this manga very much. Alas, it was not to be.
Phoenix Wright is a defense attorney who is beginning to make a name for himself. He has a plucky female assistant, Maya Fey, and as the volume begins, they are checking out a wind chime festival. There, Phoenix runs into his acquaintance Larry, a real trouble magnet, and his new girlfriend. They seem happy, but two days later, Phoenix is defending Larry in a trial. Yes, in those two days, Larry has been arrested for the crime of murdering his girlfriend’s former lover and the case has already gone to trial. Evidence is presented swiftly, with Phoenix unaware of most of it, until he eventually solves the case in the courtroom and elicits a dramatic confession. (Incidentally, it was completely obvious from the outset who the real culprit was, so readers are forced to just tag along until Phoenix catches up.)
Next, Phoenix is summoned to the house of a rich businessman who expects to be charged in the death of an employee. He’s got a suspicious family, including a snooty wife, a rebellious daughter, and a creepy brother who lives on the premises in a building full of spider specimens. There’s potential for a diverting little mystery here, but once again, everything just falls flat.
“Fun” is the key ingredient that is missing so far. This is not a serious series, and one shouldn’t go in looking for depth or realism, but it should at least be fun to read. Instead, the word that best describes it is “blah.” All it would take to liven things up would be characters with some personality or some clever cases, but I don’t hold out much hope of either.
MJ: It’s surprising to hear that this manga is so uninteresting, considering how much media the franchise has spawned. Surprising and depressing, I have to say.
MICHELLE: It’s possible that it will work better for fans of the original game. Sean Gaffney enjoyed the volume, for example. I will at least give it another volume to hook me, but it may be that it’s not just my thing.
Okay, now it’s your turn!
MJ: Okay! Well, I’ll start with the most self-consciously dramatic of my week’s selections, which would be the first volume of Hotaru Odagiri’s The Betrayal Knows My Name, just released by Yen Press.
As selfless orphan Yuki is preparing to move out of the orphanage he grew up in, so as to cease being a burden to anyone, he meets members of a supernaturally-talented “family” who change his life forever. As it turns out, Yuki is the reincarnation of the “light of God,” a member of this same “family” with the power to heal other people’s wounds by taking them on himself. He also meets a “duras” (demon) named Zess (aka “Luka”) who he has dreamt about repeatedly, and who is strongly hinted to have been Yuki’s lover in their previous lives. Eventually, Yuki realizes that he’s really found his family, and agrees to move to the group’s mansion to join their battle against a demonic foe.
Oh, Michelle, if only I’d read this when I was thirteen, I think I would have eaten it up with a spoon. The story is earnestly dark and melodramatic, the UST level is high, and the character designs are the sequential art equivalent of the pages of Tiger Beat magazine. Unfortunately, as a jaded 40-something, I spent most of the series’ triple-sized first volume sighing heavily and rolling my eyes.
The series reads something like Ze with an actual plot, which sounds like a positive thing on the face of it, but without the true, dramatic seriousness of a teenager to lend a helping hand, everything just feels too carefully contrived to be believed. Even sexy love interest, Zess, is too obviously crafted for its target audience. Having fallen for Yuki’s soul in female form during their former lives, he manages to provide homoerotic excitement while still appearing accessible to female readers. Perfect? Maybe. But as an older reader, it’s a bit hard to take.
On the plus side, somewhere around three-quarters of the way in, I found myself getting sucked into the delicious drama anyway, so there may be addictive potential for all!
MICHELLE: I’m sorry to hear about the sighing and eyerolling, since I picked this as one of my Picks of the Week not too long ago. Is there anything that would be a problem for a thirteen-year-old reader? I know a teen that might enjoy it.
MJ: Not that I can recall. It’s certainly no more “adult” than, say, Flowers in the Attic, which was definitely part of my 13-year-old library. And, you know, I make a fuss, but as I said, I was pretty well engrossed by the end.
So what’s your other Kodansha offering for the evening?
MICHELLE: The first volume of Monster Hunter Orage (“Orage” is French for “thunderstorm.”) by Hiro Mashima, creator of Fairy Tail, which I’ve previously discussed in this space. Of my two choices this week, this is the one I thought I might not care for much which, of course, ended up being thoroughly enjoyable.
Openings don’t get much shounenier than this one, where a small boy is told, “Your weapon has the power to capture your dreams.” The boy is called Shiki and the speaker is his master, a man named Greylee who promises to teach him everything there is about monster hunting. While they’re training, Greylee also emphasizes the importance of having companions one trusts. Greylee dies in an accident before Shiki’s training is complete, but he’s learned enough to receive a special tattoo that marks him as a Seal Hunter, a hunter privileged to travel and hunt at his own discretion. (Other hunters operate through a guild on an assignment basis very similar to that seen in Fairy Tail)
Some years later, Shiki arrives in town with a list that says 1) arrive in town and 2) find comrades at the guild. Shiki proceeds to step two and, although no one is much impressed when he clambers atop a table and issues a rallying cry for comrades, he ends up following one of the strongest (and most solitary) hunters, a girl named Ailee, and piquing her interest by believing in the same dragon legend she does. As they begin their quest, they meet Sakya, the daughter of a famous armorer. After they defeat a monster responsible for killing Sakya’s father, she joins the team.
What makes Monster Hunter Orage so refreshing is its characters. Shiki is a hero in the style of One Piece‘s Luffy, in that he’s fearless and optimistic and has no preconceived notions about anyone. Of course Ailee could be a thoroughly badass hunter and of course Sakya could be a thoroughly badass armorer! What does their being female have to do with it? I also love how Mashima depicts others’ reactions to Shiki—at first his grandiose declarations about comrades are ignored, but eventually his enthusiasm begins to win people over. He’s got magnetism. Lastly, though it’s a little cheesy that Ailee turns out to be Greylee’s daughter, this is handled in an interesting way, with Ailee realizing Shiki is the boy she was always jealous of because of how much time her dad spent with him, and Shiki realizing that this is the girl he always envied for having such loving parents. There’s no inkling of romance yet, just a trio of friends going off to slay a dragon. And lo, it is good.
MJ: That sounds good indeed! What a treat, after your first Kodansha pick. So, since you’ve already likened the story’s hero to that of One Piece, you know I had trouble getting into that series in the beginning, but it sounds like this hits its stride right away. That’s pretty enticing.
MICHELLE: It does! It’s also only four volumes long, which is much easier to commit to than One Piece and its 62+ volumes! It would also be great for teens; in fact, I wrote my local YA librarian immediately about it, since Fairy Tail is popular with patrons.
I could feign ignorance here about your second book of the evening, but I happen to know that we’re in for a bit of squee regarding the sixth and final volume of Time and Again. Right?
MJ: Yes, we certainly are. When I look back at my review of Time and Again‘s first volume, it’s pretty astounding to see note far this series has come in just six volumes. Though I liked it from the start, none of my initial criticism, from the underdeveloped leads to the confusing visual storytelling, is evident in the slightest here by series’ end. In fact, I’d have to count Time and Again as one of my favorite comics of any kind in the past two years, and this final volume is a perfect example of why.
Finally the full truth comes out regarding Baek-On’s past, revealing for the first time how he really became the man we met at the beginning of the series, but more importantly, revealing the man he will be to his death and why that is so important. Previously, I thought that no character arc could be more heartbreaking than Ho-Yeon’s, but boy was I wrong. I cried through a major portion of this volume, though this manhwa is far from syrupy.
Time and Again kicks you in the gut with elegant brutality, just as karma does its doomed protagonists. Yet if there’s any coherent feeling I came away with at the story’s end, I’d have to say it was “hope.” For once, it’s not just the slasher in me that appreciates a story’s male bonding. There’s just something incredibly comforting about the thought that two people doomed to spend their lives alone don’t actually have to be lonely.
I could certainly go on about the progressive maturity of Yun’s storytelling and her powerful skill with expression, but mostly I just want to sigh contentedly and begin the series all over again. That’s how much I’ve enjoyed it.
MICHELLE: I love the phrase “elegant brutality.” This is what I was talking about in my review when I said that though it’s an exceedingly sad and painful story, Yun is not reveling in the pain. The way she tells it is almost matter-of-fact, and then the enormity of what it means for Baek-On slowly sinks in. And, as it does, readers come to realize what the title has meant all this time.
MJ: I think one of the most compelling reasons I have for wanting to start the series over with fully knowledge of Baek-On’s story, is to see how he deals with karma from the beginning. It’s been a theme throughout the series, but only at the end do we really understand.
MICHELLE: Yes, same here. Plus, now that we know what happened with the girl in his past (Wan), I want to see how that informs his behavior towards women and relationships with others in general.
MJ: Yes, I do too!
I feel like this column has traveled on a steady incline from kinda bad to definitely great. Not too shabby, eh?
MICHELLE: Not at all! It’s, like, an omen or something.
MJ: Well, let’s hope so!
From the back cover:
It’s startling enough to have a Phoenix hatch in your house, but even more startling when it reveals you have a magic carpet on the floor. Conceited it may be, but the Phoenix is also good-hearted, and obligingly accompanies the children on their adventures through time and space—which, magic being what it is, rarely turn out as they were meant…
Review:
The Phoenix and the Carpet (1904) is the second book in the trilogy that begins with Five Children and It. It’s November now and the children—Cyril, Anthea, Robert, Jane, and baby brother “the Lamb”—are back at home in Camden Town. One day, after a small fire ruins their nursery carpet, their mother buys a new one from which emerges a shiny yellow egg. And when that egg falls into the fire, a talking Phoenix is hatched who informs them that the new carpet is actually magic and can take them wherever they’d like to go.
As with the first book in the trilogy, most of the story is comprised of the wishes the children make and their often unexpected outcomes. They wish to go abroad, for example, so the carpet takes them to visit a topless tower in France, where Robert promptly gets stuck on a window ledge. On another occasion, the cook accidentally accompanies them on a trip to a sunny shore and ends up being worshipped by the natives. Other wishes involve visits to India and a plethora of Persian cats.
What’s different this time is that more of the wishes are linked. When the children wish to do a bit of good, they find themselves back in France, where they find the rightful owners of the treasure hidden in the tower. And when a would-be burglar is arrested on suspicion of having stolen said Persian cats, the children rescue him from jail and convey him to the sunny shore, whereupon he promptly falls in love with the cook and they get married on the spot. The emphasis on helping people makes this installment of the series a little more like The Railway Children, which still remains my favorite Nesbit book.
While the adventures are fun—my very favorite is not a wish at all, but a visit the children make with the Phoenix to a fire insurance company who uses his likeness for their logo—Nesbit’s writing is really the main draw here. It’s warm, observant, and clever simultaneously, eliciting many a giggle. I love this evocative line about a cast-aside bit of correspondence:
”The letter… lay on the table, drinking hot bacon fat with one corner and eating marmalade with the other.”
That line not only conjures a vivid mental picture, but tells you something about the letter’s recipients, as well. And, indeed, the characterization of the children is more defined in this second outing, with the two eldest (Cyril and Anthea) showing signs of increased maturity. Nesbit never idealizes the children—“The children were not particularly handsome, nor were they extra clever, nor extraordinarily good. But they were not bad sorts on the whole.”—and their imperfections are what make them likeable. When they discover that sometimes things can get worn out through striving to please, one gets the sense that they’ve learned an Important Lesson about consideration without it coming across as some sort of moral.
Though less famous, The Phoenix and the Carpet is actually better than the first book in the trilogy, and I am definitely looking forward to the third and final installment.