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From the stack: Saturn Apartments vol. 3

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Hisae Iwaoka’s Saturn Apartments (Viz) is the only title that I’d read prior to its inclusion in the top ten list of the Young Adult Library Services Association’s 2011 Great Graphic Novels for Teens. I can’t help but compare this book to Kou Yaginuma’s Twin Spica (Vertical), which earned a place on the main list. I like them both a lot, but I tend to think I’d have argued for Spica to take Saturn’s place in the top ten.

This is mostly because Spica has a stronger underlying narrative. It’s got a clearer arc and digs deeper into its cast of characters. That doesn’t suggest failure on the part of Saturn, as the first two volumes clearly indicate that it has different aims, favoring episodic world-building rather than sequential storytelling. It’s easy to enjoy Saturn chapter by chapter, but it’s easier to become involved in Spica, if that makes any sense.

In the third volume of Saturn Apartments, Iwaoka seems to undertake the construction of some substantial subplots. Stand-alone chapters give way to small story arcs, and threads start to recur throughout the volume. This is welcome in a way, because it shows an intention to give the series more weight, but it also seems like this kind of plotting may not be Iwaoka’s strongest skill.

After two volumes of beautifully drawn, gentle glimpses into Iwaoka’s orbital world, the subplots feel rather clumsily wedged into the narrative. They aren’t unpromising, but their emergence feels abrupt. It strikes me that none of the supporting characters were yet able to carry that much purpose at the time it was thrust upon them. The eventual (and logical) inclusion of Mitsu in that thread may change that, but the sequences are still hampered by an imbalanced quantity of expository dialogue that’s out of step with the rest of the script.

One thing that does constitute a welcome development here is a slight shift in tone. Iwaoki is also expressing more interest in the class disparities that characterize the culture she’s built. There was nothing wrong with her initial approach, affirming the value of unglamorous work in a society, but it’s nice to see her underline some of the unfairness that keeps her fictional society ticking.

Overall, the series is still one of my favorites. Iwaoki’s graceful illustrations and fragile character designs continue to hold the eye, and the underlying concept is as sturdy and productive as ever. I just wish the shift to a different, more complex kind of story felt less awkward.

(This review is based on a complimentary copy provided by the publisher.)

 

Don’t Fear the Adaptation: Summer Special

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This month Don’t Fear the Adaptation brings you a summer one-two combo of series that span the anime/manga/light novel trifecta: The Story of Saiunkoku and Shiki!

The Story of Sainkoku | Novel: Sai Yukino / Kadokawa | Manga: Kairi Yura / Kadokawa / Viz | Anime: Madhouse / Geneon (previous) / Funimation

The Story of Saiunkoku is a classic shoujo series if there ever was one. Its heroine, Shurei Hong, is a strong, hardworking girl determined to overcome the position she was squashed into, both with regard to her socioeconomic problems and her gender. She’s intelligent, insightful, caring, civic-minded, and just sassy enough to get her way. Its main male character, the Emperor Ryuki Shi, comes from a tortuous family history and is in need of exactly the qualities Shurei has to offer. Though he truly appreciates, even loves, Shurei, there’s an obstacle or three that keeps him from expressing those feelings. Not to mention, he has other things to worry about — like how to keep the country running. Add in a childhood friend with a mysterious background who rounds out the love triangle, some kibbitzing side characters, the glorious half-fantasy rendition of ancient China that is the country of Saiunkoku, and you have a formula for a successful shoujo story that’s been perfected since Rose of Versailles.

I don’t use that comparison lightly. As much as Rose of Versailles romanticized revolutionary France, The Story of Saiunkoku romanticizes ancient China in a way that is deeply familiar to anybody who grew up watching Chinese TV dramas. This isn’t a bad thing. The Story of Saiunkoku‘s aesthetic fits the story perfectly — flowing layered robes in brilliant colors, intricate hairstyles for the women and long luxurious hair for the men, patterned window lattices, pagodas a plenty, and enough flower petals to drown in. It’s vibrant and feminine without exaggeration. Madhouse’s animation, like Kairi Yura’s artwork, is solid but uninspiring, almost to the point of being dull. But Saiunkoku‘s strength is the political intrigue and the character dynamics which, together with a hint of the fantastical and the core of a romantic drama, make for an entertaining story.

David, Kate, MJ, and Michelle have all written about The Story of Saiunkoku‘s charm. The anime does justice to their compliments. The Story of Saiunkoku does what it’s supposed to, and does it well: a cast of likeable characters develop interesting relationships with each other which are then pitted against a meandering but straightforward plot. Shurei is a classic spunky anime heroine, all the way down to her relationship with her father (like so many anime and manga heroines, her mother is absent and she’s had to take care of the family). But The Story of Saiunkoku is a great example of why tropes aren’t necessarily a bad thing. Shurei is loveable because she embodies all the right traits. She’s a strong young woman, someone with her own troubles but is always sensitive to the troubles of others, someone who isn’t above getting angry when her pride is hurt but also genuinely supports the people she loves. She never glamorizes herself as a martyr, even when she’s bullied to the point of exhaustion. She’s the kind of Mary Sue that you want to aspire to, instead of snarking, and she’s definitely one of the strongest anime heroines I’ve seen in years.

What I found most intriguing about Ryuki was his multi-faceted personality. In front of his older brother, he’s vulnerable and adoring; in front of Shurei, he’s a lovesick fool. But when it comes to beating down kidnappers or running an imperial inquiry into corruption, he’s every bit the model emperor, with only his country’s wellbeing in mind. It’s not that he’s manipulative. Rather, you can tell he’s only survived so long by being calculating. As the series progresses, his inability to win over Shurei with tricks and ploys (and hard-boiled eggs) exposes him for the 19 year old he is inside, enthusiastic and well-meaning and more than a little clumsy. Is it just that we like to see a man with so much power reduced to putty in the hands of a mere girl? I know that’s certainly part of my amusement. Here Shurei is never just a damsel in distress depending on Ryuki. She even gives up a life of luxury as Ryuki’s consort in order to pursue her dreams. Shoujo heroines often pay lip service to a life framed around something other than romance, but Shurei actually lives that life. She never wanted Ryuki to fall in love with her; she’d always wanted to serve her country in any way she could. It’s just that love happened along the way.

The other characters are hit or miss, but mostly hits. Split three ways between his fondness for Ryuki, his dedication to Shouka and Shurei as an adopted son, and the torch he carries for Shurei’s affections, Seiran is just as calculating as Ryuki and, without Ryuki’s natural bubbliness, is far scarier. Koyu Li, the assistant secretary of Civil Affairs, is tragic, hotheaded, and heart-meltingly endearing in turns, and in another series could have managed to be the main character. Here, he and his good friend Shuei Ran, whose ladykiller air hides a competent general, are the mocking peanut gallery, almost always on screen as a pair, whether it be as a pair of the Emperor’s confidants or a pair of troublemakers. The Story of Saiunkoku does at times come off as a reverse harem. Don’t get me wrong, I like reverse harems just as much as the next person, but none of the female characters in the first season even come close to matching up to Shurei. While I adored meeting characters like Reishin, the sneaky but overly doting Minister of Civil Affairs who doubles as both Koyu’s adoptive father and Shurei’s uncle, and Kijin Kou, the eccentric masked Minister of Finance, Sakujun — the second oldest of Enjun Sa’s grandsons– is basically a less nuanced version of Ryuki, even in appearance, and Kuro is the least interesting of the three Hong brothers for sure. With a cast this large, there were bound to be a couple of duds, but I just wish there had been more female characters like Kouchou, the courtesan who, with equal equanimity, teaches Shurei how to wear makeup and runs Kiyou’s entire red light district.

Like all the best shoujo stories, The Story of Saiunkoku throws in plenty of humor, and the anime manages to slip in a few extra jokes. One of my favorite episodes is when Shurei falls ill and all the characters come out of the woodwork to wish her well, including an extra silly Reishin who sulks over the implication that one day his beloved niece will get married. I’m especially impressed with the anime’s restraint — there’s not a single super-deformed face for all thirty-nine episodes.

I’ve only read the first two volumes of the manga, but from what I can tell, the anime and manga do have differences, even from episode one. Some characters are introduced early in the anime, and scenes have been both added and rearranged. For instance, while in the manga, Shurei is relatively unaware that she is in danger of being poisoned, in the anime Ryuki is forced to explain the danger to her after she’s almost poisoned at a banquet. As a result, Shurei in the anime learns both about Ryuki’s troubled past and Ryuki pretending to be stupid much sooner than the manga Shurei. It’s hard to compare the entire first season of the anime to just two volumes of the manga, but if I have to make some comparison, I’d say there just seems to be more stuff happening, and at a quicker pace, in the anime. Despite this, the anime does start dragging, in particular during the period after the imperial exams. While there are never any straight-out filler episodes, the series often picks the slowest, most tortuous methods to advance the plot, like episode 21, which is almost entirely superfluous except for an eleventh hour hint at a plot twist.

The Story of Saiunkoku is like Fushigi Yugi meets Dream of Red Chambers, as envisioned by CLAMP. This, actually, is a good thing. If you’re just the slightest fan of shoujo manga, and if you come across a box set of the first season for a reasonable price, I cannot stress how quickly you should snap up that deal. As it is, you can still get the early DVD sets relatively easy, but the later DVD volumes are nigh impossible to get your hands on. Thank goodness Viz is putting out the manga, or else we’d all be missing out. Now if only we could convince them to license the light novels as well!

(Note: I’ve used the Funimation names for this review. Shuurei’s family name is actually Kou, not Hong, but I’m guessing Funimation was worried we’d get her family mixed up with the other Kou family.)

Shiki | Novel: Fuyumi Ono / Shinchosha | Manga: Ryu Fujisaki / Shueisha | Anime: Daume / Funimation

Watch online at Funimation

I feel bad that I’ve been recommending stuff that you can’t buy or watch, or can only buy at ridiculous prices. So I thought I’d throw in a bonus review and recommend something you can watch easily. Shiki has vampires, “werewolves”, and a fascinating ensemble cast that will hook you faster than you can say “Twilight.” Plus, you can watch it for free on Funimation’s site now, and next year it’ll be released as DVD box set. What more could you want? (Well, other than for someone to license the corresponding manga and light novel as well, of course.)

Summer is the season for horror stories, and Shiki delivers in spades. The story is set in the small rural village of Sotoba, a place isolated from the rest of the world by mountains and forests. Sotoba is famous for burying their dead, and as a result the local folklore has plenty of stories featuring the undead, though no one takes that myth seriously. That is, until one summer, the villagers begin to die off an unprecedented rate, only to be seen walking the streets at night. Is it an epidemic? Is it a curse brought in by the mysterious Kirishikis, the eccentric family that builds a castle in the mountains and moved in during the dead of night? Or could there be some truth in the undead legend after all?

The closest Shiki has to main characters are Natsuno Yuuki, the surly teenaged son whose family moves from Tokyo to Sotoba in the beginning of the story, and Toshio Ozaki, the young head doctor of the Ozaki Clinic whose family has always served as Sotoba’s doctors. Ozaki, first frustrated by his inability to identify what the illness killing his villagers is, tries his best to convince the other adults that there are vampires — known as “shiki”, or corpse demons, in the series — walking amongst their midst. As a representative of the adult residents of Sotoba, his is a powerful story of how the rational can brainwash people just as much as the irrational. None of the adult villagers seem able to accept that something unusual is happening in Sotoba, much less that the cause is supernatural. As much as Ozaki tries to save the village, the village unconsciously repels his attempts, and it’s only a drastic eleventh hour sleight of hand by Ozaki that gets Sotoba to listen.

Natsuno’s problems are likewise complicated. He has no love for Sotoba, and in fact only has one friend in the entire village, a cheerful guy named Toru Mutou, but he isn’t willing to stand by and let the shiki kill off the village either. Still, how do you kill the undead, especially when the only allies you have are two middle schoolers who are just as clueless as you are? To make matters more complicated, one of the first victims, a teenaged girl named Megumi Shimizu, has an obsessive crush on Natsuno, and after she’s turned into a shiki, she’s hellbent on stalking him down and turning him into a shiki as well.

It’s not the kids that are interesting in Shiki, though the complications of the Natsuno/Tooru/Megumi relationship certainly make for one of the most dramatic twists mid-series. It’s really the ambiguities of the adult characters and the incredibly well-executed pacing of the narrative that elevates Shiki from a mere vampire horror story to a very complex and very human drama. Shiki is all about asking what it means to be or want to be alive, and what sacrifices are justified in the pursuit. Take Ozaki, whose obsession with hunting down the shiki is matched only by the shiki’s obsession with hunting down him. He wants to save the village from getting taking over; they want to keep him from killing their own kind. Is one really better than the other? The leader of the shiki, Sunako, was bitten when she was just a little girl, and all she wants is to give the shiki a place where they don’t have to hide, where they can have festivals and live as families and walk down the street just like people. It’s a noble enough dream, but to accomplish it, she needs to wipe out Sotoba’s living residents.

If Sunako is a charismatic villain who tugs at your heartstrings, Ozaki is a terribly unsympathetic protagonist who makes you question whether you should even be cheering for him. He’s callous towards the concerns of others, so one-minded that he thinks nothing of sacrificing his own wife to accomplish his aims. Towards the end of series, you begin to wonder whether he actually cares about the village at all, or if this is just a matter of pride for him. Then there’s Muroi, who as the head priest of Sotoba, should be on the frontlines driving away the shiki. But instead Muroi is entranced by the shiki as a way of escaping his stifling life, and you find yourself upset with Ozaki for not being more understanding, even though Muroi is, in effect, enabling the death of Sotoba. And all of this doesn’t even begin to touch on the feelings of the victims’ families, who are simultaneously repulsed and drawn to their shiki loved ones. Would it be better for someone you love to die and stay dead? Or is it better for them to die and come back as a murderous, blood-thirsty, but very animate shiki?

Shiki packs all this and more in crisscrossing plot lines that weave together to form a narrative about life and death that could be mined forever. You’ll find yourself changing loyalties, reconsidering sides, examining long-held preconceptions about how life should be and what rules should guide human interaction, simply depending on which character the episode focuses on. While the story can get a little heavy-handed, especially during Muroi’s dialogues with Sunako, the grand finale of the last few episodes handle the moral dilemmas of the remaining Sotoba residents so unflinchingly that you’ll wish for some sugar-coating. But if there’s one thing you could say about Shiki, it’s that it forces most of its major characters to look their choices in the face and stand up to them — sometimes with disastrous results.

The art in Shiki can be preposterous at times. Don’t get me started on the crazy hairdos, the physics-defying tears, and the inexplicable fashions; Megumi in the first episode doesn’t even come close to the worst of it. There’s a particular moment where one of the Kirishiki servants goes to visit Natsuno which just emphasizes how ill-suited Shiki was for comedy, no matter how hard the series would try to inject occasional jokes. But you forget that failing when you’re dealing with one of the spookiest soundtracks made for any horror anime. The sound effects– whispering choirs, eerie giggles, and almost fetid sucking sounds– will make you cringe and shrink back into yourself. The music ranges from forgettable melodies plucked out on guitar strings to an unassuming main theme that nevertheless ends up being associated with so many depressing events that you start dreading its appearance. The end product gives off the impression of being a demented music box — harmless during the day, but deeply unsettling in the dark.

Shiki is a feast for the fan of vampires or the supernatural. There’s something vaguely Stephen King-ish about its plot and premise, but the execution is something much closer to an HBO miniseries: you know it has a plan, you know it’s going somewhere, and the ending is satisfying and satisfyingly unexpected. The characters span the whole spectrum of unselfish, neutral, and reprehensible. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve watched a series that handled that spectrum as well as Shiki. Watch it now while it’s free, then grab a copy for those hot, terrible summer evenings where you need a little chill that only the undead can inspire.

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Either Natsume Yujincho or Chi’s Sweet Home will be next. If you feel strongly one way or another, as always, drop me a line!

The Josei Alphabet: V

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“V” is for…

Valentine Place Juuyon Banchi, adapted by Takako Hashimoto, based on a novel by Pamela Bauer, originally published by Ohzora Shuppan, one volume: A young man returns to his family after a long absence to find that a childhood friend has become a formidable woman.

Vashumira no Shihou, adapted by Karin Miyamoto, based on a novel by Susan Kearney, originally published by Harlequinsha, three volumes: A spirited American’s refusal to assent to an arranged marriage causes a succession crisis in scenic Vasmira.

Venus ni Arazu, written and illustrated by Yuki (Butterflies, Flowers) Yoshihara, originally serialized in Shogakukan’s Petit Comic, two volumes: A model loses her agency gig and can only find work with the creepy sculptor who got her fired in the first place.

Venus no Yabou, adapted by Tsukiko Kurebayashi, based on a novel by Colleen Collins, originally published by Ohzora Shuppan, one volume:  An ambitious young writer gets her big break when the author of the “Real Men” column runs off with a stripper. Unfortunately, she falls in love with one of her advice-seeking correspondents.

Virgin Road, adapted by Misuzu Sasaki, based on a novel by Helen Bianchin, originally published by Ohzora Shuppan, one volume: A wealthy Australian heiress chafes under family expectations and dreads the loveless marriage they’ve arranged for her.

Licensed josei:

  • Vampire Doll, written and illustrated by Erika Kari, originally serialized in Ichijinsha’s Zero-Sum Ward, six volumes, published in English by Tokyopop.
  • Voices of Love, written and illustrated by Kanae Hazuki, originally published by Ohzora Shuppan, one volume, published in English by LuvLuv Press.

What starts with “V” in your josei alphabet?

 

The Betrayal Knows My Name, Vol. 1

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For years, Tokyopop specialized in a particular genre — call it “forbidden bromance,” for want of a better term — in which two handsome, impeccably groomed young men teetered on the brink of a relationship. That relationship usually faced a serious obstacle: one might be a demon and the other a human, for example, or one may have killed the other in a previous life. Most of the story was devoted to uncovering the reason that fate united them, providing the heroes ample time for impassioned conversations and meaningful looks.

At their best, titles like Tokyo Bablyon, Silver Diamond, and X-Kai were silly but engrossing, with plot twists as gloriously melodramatic as an episode of Passions; at their worst, they read like bad slash fic, with purple dialogue and an abundance of poorly explained plot details. Yen Press’ latest offering, The Betrayal Knows My Name, has all the requisite elements to be a gas — pretty-boy leads, past-life tragedy, perfectly moussed locks — but never quite rises to the level of a great guilty pleasure.

Not that volume one wants for activity; every chapter is packed with action sequences, murderous demons, dramatic confrontations, and shocking revelations. What Betrayal lacks is the kind of tightly constructed narrative that made the best bromances such a treat to read. The characters barely rise above type, while script flirts with incoherence at every turn, introducing new characters and subplots at such a furious pace that the central love story is often in danger of being overshadowed. Even the dialogue sags; when the characters aren’t explaining things to one another, they’re so wrapped up in their own thoughts that their monologues become tedious. (Sample: “We can’t survive on principles alone. And everyone would like to live without getting tainted at all. But that’s not how things are.”)

That’s a pity, because The Betrayal Knows My Name looks a lot like my favorite bromances. The character designs owe an obvious debt to CLAMP’s high Baroque period, when characters wore trench coats and dog collars and always had windswept hair. And Hotaru Odagiri certainly knows how to draw brooding men; her heroes, Yuki and Zess, spend a great deal of time staring into space while wearing soulful expressions. (They also know how to pop a pose for readers, allowing us to savor the sheer ridiculousness of their outfits, and the artful way in which they leave their shirts unbuttoned to the waist.)

Yet the prettiness of the character designs can’t camouflage the fact that Betrayal is straining too hard for effect; what should be a great, emo-porn pleasure is something of a chore to read, thanks to its relentless pace, clumsy dialogue, and chemistry-free leads. Readers who can’t get enough of the forbidden bromance genre may find Betrayal an adequate fix; others are encouraged to hold out for Tokyo Babylon‘s return this fall.

Review copy provided by Yen Press.

THE BETRAYAL KNOWS MY NAME, VOL. 1 • BY HOTARO ODAGIRI • YEN PRESS • 368 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

From the stack: Kekkaishi 3-in-1 vol. 1

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I’ve always heard great things about Yellow Tanabe’s Kekkaishi (Viz) from eminently reliable sources, but I’ve dawdled on taking a serious look at the series because I feel so late to the party. When a title hits its twenties and you haven’t really tried it, there’s a barrier to entry. Viz, in its ongoing efforts to get more of my money, has softened that barrier by offering a 3-in1 edition of Kekkaishi.

You know that I’m very pro-omnibus. I’m not a fiend about paper quality; if I can focus on the page I’m reading instead of what’s on the flip side, I’m perfectly content. For me, it’s a worthwhile trade-off if it results in more content for a lower price. And sometimes the larger span of content makes a more persuasive case for the series that a single volume could. The first third of this collection is likeable but not particularly gripping. It takes a while for Tanabe to get into her groove and for the series to really take off.

Kekkaishi tells the story of young exorcists who spend their nights protecting their school from demons that range from pesky to violently destructive. The school used to be the site of a clan led by a lord whose spiritual aura made him something of a demon magnet. This forced him to hire a powerful exorcist to protect his home and family. After the exorcist’s death, his disciples split into two factions, each thinking their efforts were superior.

Yoshimori and Tokine are the chosen heirs of those two families of exorcists, and even though the family they served is long gone, their land is still demon central. It’s also the place where the kids spend their day in class. Tokine is a couple of years older than Yoshimori. She’s diligent in her training, and she’s eager to accept the family mantle. Yoshimori is resentful over the fact that he’s been forced onto the family career track, but his attitude changes when Tokine is hurt because of his carelessness and lack of skill. He vows to become a better kekkaishi, not to fulfill the family legacy, but to make sure his friend Tokine isn’t hurt again. (The emotional arc of his origin story is a much less dour version of Peter Parker’s, basically.)

That’s a lot of explanation, but it’s necessary, and Tanabe presents it in a lively manner. It sets up the relationship between Yoshimori and Tokine, which is as central to the series as the demon battles. Of course, the demon battles aren’t to be sneezed at. The kekkaishi’s skill set is refreshingly straightforward: they trap the demons in cubic force fields, then banish them. Things get complicated depending on the strength and malice of the demon in question, and Tanabe draws these sequences with great skill and clarity. Designs for the demons are wonderfully varied.

In the first volume, it can seem like Tanabe is holding back, sticking to short but effective stories rather than really digging into her characters and situations. Maybe the feat of collecting a full volume of material gave her the confidence to go deeper, since the second volume opens with a very involving multi-story arc that examines Tokine’s past and introduces more detail about the larger supernatural culture of the kekkaishi and the mystical types around them. From there, Tanabe goes from strength to strength, alternating between exciting battles, arcs full of emotional undercurrents, and goofy one-off stories that bridge between larger tales.

Aside from general approval of the series overall, there are some elements that I really, really like. One of them is the fact that she can render Yoshimori’s training in ways that are interesting and entertaining, which is a rare feat for a shônen mangaka. The kekkaishi’s means of battle are so simple, but Tanabe has given a lot of thought to how they can be applied, and it’s fun to watch the characters figure out the variations.

Another highlight are the cranky old people. Yoshimori’s crotchety grandfather and Tokine’s sly, spry granny are constantly trying to get each other’s goat. It’s the kind of half-serious, half-reflexive squabbling that can really liven up the vibe. Best of all is that they both get moments that reveal them as formidable kekkaishi in their own right.

The third element that I particularly enjoy is Tokine. In her author notes, Tanabe explains the character’s conception. She didn’t want to create a victim for the hero to rescue over and over, and she wanted to give Tokine some advantages that made her Yoshimori’s equal. Tanabe succeeded admirably in that regard. Tokine isn’t as powerful as Yoshimori, but she’s more skilled and certainly more mature. She’s an almost serene, steely presence amidst the demon-fighting mayhem, though she has her own goofy foibles. You can see why Yoshimori has such a huge crush on her, even if she doesn’t acknowledge it.

I didn’t really need another long, ongoing series on my to-read list, but I’m glad to add Kekkaishi to it. It’s got all of the elements of a sturdy supernatural adventure with plenty of quirks to keep things from turning formulaic. While I doubt Viz will run through the series entire back catalog in the 3-in1 format, it’s not so oppressively long that it will cost a fortune to fill in the gaps. And the series is available on the publisher’s iPad app, making that process relatively simple. I hope this strategy gives Kekkaishi the commercial boost it deserves.

 

Bookshelf Briefs 6/27/11

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This week, Michelle, MJ, Kate, & David take a look at new releases from Viz Media, Yen Press, and Archie Comics.

Bleach, Vol. 35 | By Tite Kubo | Viz Media – The battle to rescue Orihime and foil Aizen’s plans to destroy Karakura Town continues! Too bad that it mostly does so in the form of an interminable match-up between Kenpachi Zaraki, badass Soul Reaper captain, and Nnoitora, the irksome Arrancar. You just know that when an opponent in shounen manga brags incessantly about how it’s impossible to cut him, he is gonna wind up getting cut. And so it goes, though the fight itself is a confusing mess of blows, explosions, and sound effects like “wooo” and “klang.” There’s finally a bit of progress in Aizen’s plans, and if I cared enough I’d ferret out what seems to be either sloppy plotting or a retcon, but the truth is that it’s really best not to think too much about such things when reading Bleach, which in this volume embodies mindless entertainment at its best. – Michelle Smith

Blue Exorcist, Vol. 2 | By Kazue Kato | Viz Media – Exorcist-in-training Rin has been slacking in class, but when a tough-looking classmate proves to be surprisingly smart, it acts as some motivation to get his act together. Then he and the other students are thrust together for the Esquire Examination, with the pleasing result that we get to know quite a few other kids in a short period of time. There’s a real Hogwarts vibe happening too, with the varieties of courses and specialties available for exorcists. One aspect of the story leaves me cold, though, and that’s Rin’s ultimate goal. Now that I have insight into the Shonen Jump editorial process courtesy of Bakuman。, I can’t help but think that “I’ll become an exorcist so I can defeat Satan!” is someone’s calculated attempt to meet the requirements of a popular battle manga. – Michelle Smith

Highschool of the Dead, Vol. 3 | Story by Saisuke Sato, Art by Shouji Sato | Yen Press – After escaping school grounds, resisting the authority of a charismatic but dangerous teacher, and rescuing a small girl from an undead mob, our heroes stumble across a band of paranoid survivors who believe that the zombies are, in fact, an elaborate government hoax. Though this twist provides welcome relief from the endless parade of panty shots and girl-on-girl teases, Highschool of the Dead is still a chore to read; the dialogue is so stiff and unnatural that it’s hard to suppress a giggle, even when the authors are dead serious. Sloppily staged fight scenes and poorly drawn figures do little to make the very thin story more palatable to discerning zombie fans. – Katherine Dacey

Kimi ni Todoke, Vol. 9 | By Karuho Shiina | Viz Media – As sweet as Kimi ni Todoke is, its one potentially frustrating element is its heroine Sawako’s inability to see herself as equal to her would-be suitor, Kazehaya. Fortunately, her friends (and even one of her foes) finally give her what for in in volume nine, the results of which leave us waiting breathlessly for volume ten. As usual, Karuho Shiina plays things out in perfect high school shoujo romance fashion, while also refreshing the genre as she goes. Shiina pushes Sawako’s stubborn self-deprecation to the point of parody early in the volume, without damaging the series’ sincere tone in the slightest. Meta has never tasted so sweet. Always recommended. – MJ

One Piece, Vol. 57 | By Eiichiro Oda | Viz Media – I never thought I’d type these words about this series, but I’m ready for the current story arc to be over. Luffy, our pirate hero, is struggling mightily to save his brother Ace from a terrible fate. He’s inadvertently assembled an army of new friends and old foes along the way and is waging a pitched battle against the forces of the Navy. This is all executed well, and there are some particular highlights. (Any story arc that heavily features a super-powerful, anarchist drag queen can’t be all bad.) But I can’t get past how much I miss the participation of Luffy’s regular crew, the Straw Hats, and I’m not able to see the virtue in sidelining them during such an important milestone in their captain’s life. Eye-popping mayhem is all well and good, but it’s better when there are old friends in the thick of it.– David Welsh

Time and Again, Vol. 6 | By JiUn Yun | Yen Press – In the final volume of Time and Again, author JiUn Kim explores the family curse that ultimately set Baek-On on the path to becoming an exorcist. A deft mixture of folklore, horror, and intergenerational conflict, Baek-On’s back story would be a stand-out in any ghost-of-the-week drama; here, however, it provides a fitting capstone to an ambitious, if sometimes uneven, collection of stories about a young man struggling to carve out his own path, even though his divination skills all but ensured that he would assume his father’s profession. Kim’s artwork is elegant yet restrained, striking the right balance between sumptuous period detail and spare staging of events. N.B. Die-hard fans of Time and Again will enjoy the afterword to volume six, in which Kim cheerfully discusses the historical and continuity errors she made in the course of writing the series. – Katherine Dacey

Veronica Presents: Kevin Keller #1 |By Dan Parent, Rich Koslowski and Jack Morelli |Archie Comics – It’s awfully cool of Archie Comics to introduce a gay character and commit to him as an ongoing citizen of fictional Riverdale. Even nicer is the fact that, aside from a few troll-ish comments from people who’ve probably never read an Archie comic in the first place, response to the addition has been overwhelmingly positive. The net result, at least based on the evidence of this particular comic, is that Riverdale has another uncomplicated, good-natured teen resident, sort of a gay male Betty. Kevin is out to his family and friends, and readers get to see flashbacks to that process. The underlying plot is more about Kevin’s hopes to serve in the military someday, following in his supportive father’s footsteps. Basically, though, it’s an Archie comic about nice kids being nice. Seriously, did anyone honestly think there’d be any other outcome? That the White Party would swing through Riverdale? – David Welsh

Let’s Get Visual: Wild Adapter

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MICHELLE: Hey, MJ, did you know there was a Wild Adapter MMF going on?

MJ: I’ve heard rumors to that effect. Terrific series, Wild Adapter. Whoever is hosting it must have great taste!

MICHELLE: I’m relieved you think so, because in honor of the Feast, we’re devoting this month’s Let’s Get Visual column to that series!

MJ: We are? Oh! Yes, we are!

MICHELLE: One of the hosts has already done an admirable job scanning some of the many significant images from the series (at great personal cost) but that won’t stop us from talking about a few more.

In Wild Adapter, creator Kazuya Minekura tells her story through the eyes of observers. Sometimes these figures are opposed to our main protagonists—Makoto Kubota and Minoru Tokito—in some way, such as the detective in volume four or the new youth gang leader in volume six, and sometimes they are with them, either in a personal way (their young neighbor Shouta in volume five) or a more business-like fashion (Takizawa the journalist in volume three). In every case, though, we rely on their interactions with Kubota and Tokito to learn more about said fellows, since we are denied access to their thoughts.

As I reread the series, I noticed that Minekura also uses her art to support this narrative choice, and that she, in particular, uses a similar device several times where Kubota is concerned. (Click on images to enlarge.)

Volume 2, Chapter 11 (TOKYOPOP)

Here, Tokito stops Kubota, who has violently come to his rescue. Kubota instantly sheds any vestige of excitement, and throughout this two-page spread, his eyes, like his thoughts, feelings, and motivations, remain shielded. He’s distant and aloof. Yet when Saori suddenly realizes that Kubota is the one who’s possessive of Tokito, he offers her a small smile. She finds the experience scary, and I agree that it could be construed as an ominous expression, but it’s also a stunning moment of access to what Kubota feels.

MJ: I agree that it’s a stunning image, and while I can appreciate Saori’s response, like you, I’m mostly fascinated. As you say, Kubota is a character who deliberately shuts himself off from other people, and now, as we’re granted this tiny moment of access, it becomes really clear why. In these rare moments, with just a small smile and a real look into the eyes, he’s suddenly wide open to us, and the guy that we see in there is nothing like the person he displays the rest of the time. And that’s a guy he really doesn’t want people to know. Maybe he thinks that guy is scary, I don’t know. But it’s clear that when he does grant access, he’s pretty much an open book—probably more so than characters who are generally open to begin with. Does any of that make sense?

MICHELLE: It does, and you’ve provided me with an excellent introduction for my next example!

Volume 3, Chapter 18 (TOKYOPOP)

This scene takes place near the end of volume three, during which Kubota and Tokito have infiltrated a cult that they erroneously believe is connected to Wild Adapter. Here, the guys are looking very casual and cozy, and while Kubota admits to Tokito that he has become more human, he does it while facing away from the audience. We see the back of his head and a hand holding a cigarette as he speaks. This is a moment reserved for he and Tokito alone.

Kubota doesn’t say it outright, but it’s clear that it’s Tokito making him feel this way. And when Tokito goes on to lament their progress in their investigation, the warm and open-eyed smile of Kubota’s at the bottom of page two makes it clear he hasn’t yet changed mental gears. He’s still thinking about Tokito.

MJ: To me, these soft, openly caring eyes are just as much of a shock as the more terrifying look we see in your first example. It’s clear that both of these looks are genuinely Kubota, but you get the feeling that Tokito is the first thing that’s ever inspired the feelings behind this look.

I have to really admire Minekura’s skill with expression here, too. Though some aspects of her artwork are very detailed, she actually doesn’t include a lot of detail when it comes to eyes. Yet what she’s able to do with just the barest nuance is, frankly, incredible.

MICHELLE: But wait, there’s more! Minekura uses this technique again in volume four, with very different results!

Volume 4, Chapter 22 (TOKYOPOP)

Here, we see Kubota being interrogated by Hasebe for a murder that was committed in a hotel. Kubota’s not giving up any information, so it makes perfect sense that he would be evasive, as indicated by the closed eyes on the first page. Hasebe continues to push, however, and Kubota finally gives up pretense and opens his eyes, allowing us access once more. Only this time, we’re not seeing a warm and friendly Kubota; we’re seeing a coldly resolute one. The grey screentone over his face emphasizes that this is just a partial disclosure—he’s revealing the extent of his determination, but anything else is still off-limits.

MJ: It’s the narrowness of his gaze that really achieves this effect, but again, it’s done with most subtle detail. And you’re right, he’s giving the detective just exactly as much as he wants to give him, no more, no less. It really gives you a strong sense of how carefully he controls everything about himself, and just how rare the two previous examples really are.

MICHELLE: Yes, you’re quite right! The amount of openness Kubota will permit with other people is infinitesimal compared to what Tokito is allowed to see.

Well, that’s it for me and Kubota’s eyes. What images did you want to talk about?

MJ: I’d like to talk about a scene from the end of volume two. It’s one I’ve discussed a couple of times before, both in my initial review of the series and in my infamous post on “intimacy porn.” It’s one of my favorite scenes in the series, and I’ve already explained quite a bit about why.

Volume 2, Chapter 12 (TOKYOPOP)

As you can see, Tokito has hidden himself away in the shower to deal with pain in his claw hand, and as he wrestles with both the physical pain and emotional turmoil the hand causes him, he realizes that Kubota is on the other side of the shower door, doing laundry.

When I’ve talked about this scene before, my focus has always been on the incredible intimacy of it, and how beautifully Minekura creates this intimacy while putting a physical barrier between them. What I’ve never discussed before, however, is the detail that, in my view, is almost solely responsible for bringing us into the scene as readers, and that would be the sound effects.

I have no idea what the sound effects really say. I don’t read Japanese, and I haven’t asked anyone to interpret them for me, but really, I don’t have to. It’s actually the visual effect of the Japanese sound effects that makes them so effective.

We feel it from the beginning, with just Tokito—the soft sounds of the shower accompanying his thoughts. Then the rumble of the washing machine joins in as Kubota enters the scene. By the end, we’re surrounded by it all, the soft shower and the muffled rumbles of the machine, creating a shell of sound around the characters, isolating them from the rest of the world, but including us as intimate onlookers.

I’m always impressed by writers and artists who can create a real sense of place on the page, and Minekura has done this by surrounding us in these familiar sounds. We can imagine ourselves in the room—feel the rumble of the washing machine under our feet and the thick humidity of the steam as it wafts out around the edges of the shower door. It’s so beautifully done.

MICHELLE: Oh, I love the image of a shell of sound. I like, too, how the initial thump of the washing machine literally intrudes onto Tokito’s thoughts in the way that the sound effect bleeds over the edge of its panel and onto the next, where Tokito, with water streaming down his face, has now been momentarily distracted.

MJ: Yes, I love that frame you’re talking about, where the sounds of the washing machine suddenly intrude into Tokito’s thoughts. It’s as though the washing machine has spoken up to say, “We can hear what you’re thinking in there, and yes, he would be angry if you cut off your hand.”

MICHELLE: Do you actually want me to tell you what the sound effects say? Or is it better not to know?

MJ: Sure, tell me!

MICHELLE: The first one you see, and the one that appears most often and prominently, is “zaa,” which is frequently used alongside rain or falling water. It’s the “a” sound that travels down that first page and drifts across the final two-page spread. On the second page, when Tokito clenches his hand in pain, the sound effects say “zukin zukin,” or “throb throb.”

I was unfamiliar with the “goun” sound accompanying the first image of the washing machine, so consulted Google and found a site that helpfully describes “goun” as “the sound of a washing machine.”

MJ: Ah, helpful indeed.

MICHELLE: One of my motivations for teaching myself kana in the first place was to be able to decipher untranslated sound effects. It slows me down, reading each and every one, but it does add something to the atmosphere, I find.

Another thing I notice in this example is how Minekura treats the “zaa” sound effect, allowing it to trickle down the page along with the water in the first instance, and in the last, depicting it wafting laterally past Kubota, almost like escaping steam.

MJ: What’s really amazing to me, is how successfully this effect is achieved even without understanding the kana. The visual representation of the sound is so powerful all on its own.

MICHELLE: Definitely. Even if the sound effects weren’t there at all, one would still imagine the sound of running water. Their presence emphasizes the sound and its insular quality, though. I’m reminded of an earlier column, where we talked about the sound effects in Banana Fish. There, an image of a passing train automatically conjured the associated sounds, but the sound effects, through their domination of the page, took it to the next level by mirroring how the sound dominated the moment for the characters.

MJ: Here, the sound sort of cradles the moment, creating a sense of comfort and familiarity around something extremely vulnerable.

MICHELLE: Ooh, good verb. In both cases, the sound effects define the sound in some way, rather than simply reiterating that it’s there.

MJ: When I first started reading manga, I found sound effects distracting. I was so new to comics, I had a lot of trouble digesting all the visual information on the page, and sound effects just made that more difficult. Over time, however, I’ve come to appreciate just how much they contribute to the atmosphere of a scene, and how powerful they can be in the right hands.

MICHELLE: It’s like this whole other tool in the mangaka’s kit, and one that we don’t automatically think about.

MJ: Well said!

MICHELLE: Which brings us back around to the inescapable truth that Kazuya Minekura is brilliant and everyone should read Wild Adapter.

MJ: Yes, they should!

For more reviews, roundtables, and essays on Wild Adapter, check out the complete MMF archive.

Fanservice Friday: The Human Touch

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A few months ago, I dedicated this column to something I called “intimacy porn,” a kind of emotionally grounded writing that creates a strong sense of intimacy between characters. One of the examples of “intimacy porn” I cited at the time was Kazuya Minekura’s Wild Adapter, the subject of this month’s Manga Moveable Feast, hosted right here at Manga Bookshelf.

As it happens, Kazuya Minekura is a master of this type of writing, and as a result, Wild Adapter is lousy with intimacy porn. Really, it’s just all over the place. Minekura has number of ways she achieves this, but my favorite is probably the simplest: the casual touch.

You know the kind of touch I mean—that little nothing of a touch that somehow means everything, the brush of the hand, the tug on the sleeve that so clearly signals protectiveness, intimacy, and a strong hint of possession. While this is often used in romantic manga to indicate a controlling party—usually the male in a heterosexual romantic relationship—Minekura makes her characters each equally possessive of the other, creating a universe of two that is glorious to behold.

In Wild Adapter the casual touch is almost exclusively the territory of its protagonists, Kubota and Tokito, whose relationship is in some ways fairly ambiguous, but in one way perfectly clear. Whatever they are precisely to each other, they are with their whole hearts, and nobody else is even remotely a factor.

In volume two, a woman observes to Kubota, “Since the first time I met you two, I thought Tokito was weird. I wondered why he was so possessive of Kubota-san. But the truth is… you’re the one who is.”

As it turns out, she was right both times. Both Kubota and Tokito see their relationship in this way, and it’s obvious even in the simplest of touches. Even a humorous scene is filled with these moments, and it’s interesting to note that there isn’t much difference between casual leaning and a kick to the head in terms of effect. Both these movements reveal intimacy.

Sometimes the touch is less casual, but still private, creating intimacy in an unlikely setting. In this scene for instance, Kubota and Tokito aren’t particularly casual at all, to start. Kubota’s displaying protectiveness, sure, but there’s a sense of urgency with Tokito not at his best, and that’s the tone the scene opens with. Just a bit later, though, our attention is drawn to just their hands—one gloved, one not—and emotional the core of the scene becomes centered there, on fingers squeezing fingers, a tiny thing that nobody would take notice of in the cold, vast environment of the hospital. Kubota’s possessive arm around the shoulder later doesn’t hurt either.


What’s perhaps most interesting about the casual touches in this manga, is that though Minekura uses them liberally throughout the first four volumes, when the story flashes back to Kubota and Tokito’s first year together, we discover that for a long, long time Kubota would not touch Tokito at all (their earlier moments notwithstanding). Of course what this really facilitates is the opportunity for a beautifully intimate scene like this near the end of the chapter, when Tokito finally offers his hand to Kubota and insists that he take it.

(click images to enlarge)



To a random onlooker, this might appear so casual as to not even register at all. Offering a hand to help someone up is a gesture of friendliness, certainly, but not usually one of intimacy. In reality, this hand offered is as far from casual as it could possibly be, and perhaps more intimate than a kiss in that moment.

Of course, sometimes the best touching is not remotely casual. In romantic manga, even one as ambiguous about it as this one, there’s really nothing that can top that heart-stopping moment of intimacy that bursts from something casual into something profound. In this kind of moment, with this kind of touch, the whole world falls away for that long, long moment—their world, our world, the entire universe even—stunned into an endless second of suspended animation by the power of human touch.

When I started this column, “Fanservice Friday,” I wasn’t really sure what I planned to do with it. “Fanservice” is a term generally imbued with negative connotations, used mainly as an expression of derision or at least complaint over elements inserted into a work for the sole purpose of titillation. “Fanservice” is most commonly used to describe something exploitative, pandering, and possibly offensive. At best it’s a term infused with self-mocking.

Over time, what the term has come to mean for me however, is something a bit broader.

As someone whose attention is grabbed more often by emotional hooks than visual ones (despite my slight obsession with coats and sleeves) I’ve discovered the reality behind what services me as a fan.

For me, a single image like the one to the right is about a thousand times more titillating than a chapter full of suggestively clad hotties or even outright pornography. The hunch of the shoulder, the protectively placed hand, the comfort and familiarity filling the frame—this intimate atmosphere is what fills me with longing and a desire to see my fantasy played out on the page.

This is my fanservice. Thanks, Wild Adapter.

No Us and Them: Theme in Wild Adapter

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I admit it—I’m a theme geek. I like a tight plot, complex characters, gorgeous art, an immersive atmosphere and all the other elements that make up a good manga as much as the next fan. But what really makes or breaks a story for me is how well the author handles her theme.

Kazuya Minekura is a theme-heavy writer, so I always enjoy her manga. But Wild Adapter is special—a mature, beautifully-crafted series where each individual volume is both a unique whole and a reiteration of the same thematic elements woven from a different character’s perspective but held together using similar threads.

The basic pattern for each volume is simple. Minekura introduces us to the ex-yakuza Makoto Kubota, one of the story’s two protagonists. She lets us know he’s obtrusively not one of us—a stylishly cool, taciturn, amoral killer with almost no connection to the world of humanity or the vast majority of the people who live in it.

And then through the perspective of the secondary characters, she makes him “us” after all—supported and supporting, interdependent, forgivable. And in doing so, she makes the secondary characters—drug addicts, teenage mothers, lonely kids, semi-corrupt cops—all of them stand-ins for the audience in our vast array of imperfection, into a comfortingly forgivable common mass of “us” too.

(click images to enlarge)

 

Wild Adapter is especially beautiful because Minekura is strong enough to not make compromises with her theme. She never minimizes Kubota’s violence, never pretends he has values he doesn’t, never makes him suddenly and unrealistically “good.” And yet she never distances herself from him either. You can tell how much she likes him, and how much, in general, the other characters like and trust him too—not in spite of his faults, but because in being with him, they recognize themselves.


 

 

Genre-straddling notwithstanding, Wild Adapter is a love story. So the places Kubota is most convincingly “us” are in relation to Minoru Tokito, the amnesic “stray cat” he picks up off the street. As is often the case in manga about love, Tokito is Kubota’s compliment—comparatively innocent, easily engaged, outspoken, sincere—basically a nice if somewhat troubled kid.

But contrary to common genre tropes, Wild Adapter isn’t a story about how Tokito’s innocence and decency save Kubota from himself. Kubota is himself from start to finish. If there’s saving going on, it’s mostly the kind couples do for each other in real life; providing each other support, making up for each other’s weaknesses, having a place to come home to. Amidst the trappings of action-adventure, Kubota and Tokito’s relationship is reassuringly slice-of-life.


 

Where the saving is more than just the usual things everyone does for each other though, both Tokito and Kubota are smart enough to understand it’s mutual. In a genre that notoriously splits partners into unrealistic, stiffly-defined roles, Tokito is refreshingly insistent on their joint responsibility for the relationship. True, there is some “I’m this and you’re that.” Tokito is not afraid to complain. But when push comes to shove, there’s only “we’re this together.”

 

That’s Akimi Yoshida‘s Banana Fish on the right-hand side of the picture above, but I pick on it only because I read it fairly recently and so can still remember which volume the example I wanted was in. There are equally good examples in plenty of other manga too. From shounen to BL, it’s one of manga’s most common tropes: You’re bad but I care about you anyway.

Tokito, and through him Minekura, never engage in it. Japanese tends to encourage inclusion through vagueness, but Tokito is outspoken and concrete: “We’re monsters,” “We killed so many people,” “Everything that belongs to Kubo-chan also belongs to me.” Even their names include each other. Kubota’s name has protect and field in it; Tokito’s includes assignment/charge and ripen.

And Kobota’s name includes everyone else as well; his personal name, Makoto, is made up of truth and person, “what people really are.”

Reviews often note that Wild Adapter is a deceptively light read. It feels like a guilty pleasure, and you only notice afterwards that it’s actually skillful, well-crafted writing. There are no doubt many reasons the series functions that way; after all, it really is just plain good writing.

But I think in the end, one of the major reasons is how perfectly integrated every piece of the story is to its theme. It truly does feel light to have a few hours in which no judgment is necessary or expected, truly is a pleasure to have someone assure us we’re all in it together.

 

MMF: More Minekura

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There isn’t really a shortage of Kazuya Minekura manga available in English. In addition to the six existing volumes of Wild Adapter, Tokyopop also published the one-volume Bus Gamer, the nine-volume Saiyuki and nine of the ten volumes of Saiyuki Reload. While everyone’s first concern for Minekura is obviously a complete recovery from what sounds like a terrifying illness, greed is part and parcel of fandom, especially when you find out things like this exist.

That is the cover from the first volume of Shiritsu Araiso Koutou Gakkou Seitokai Shikkoubu, or Araiso Private School Student Council Executive Committee, a two-volume series published in Tokuma Shoten’s Chara. Fans of Wild Adapter will recognize the twosome on the cover.

Yes, this series features an alternate-universe version of the boys who keep the peace at their school by what sound like any means necessary. It cannot possibly be as good as Wild Adapter, I don’t think, but seeing Kubota and Tokito under any circumstances would be a total delight. And they’re pretty damned funny in Wild Adapter, so seeing them play pure comedy is a very enticing prospect.

And these covers rock hard.

 

 

March on Earth 1-2 by Mikase Hayashi

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Man, I miss CMX. They had an awful lot of cute, short shoujo series, most of which were thankfully published in their entirety before the company’s tragic demise. One of these is the two-volume March on Earth by Mikase Hayashi. It’s a quiet little story and worth checking out, especially if you’ve burnt out on action or angst and just want to read about people being kind and helping each other out for a while.

The basic premise is somewhat implausible. Fifteen-year-old Yuzu Takamiya was raised by her teenage sister Tsubaki after their parents passed away, and now that Tsubaki has died in a car accident, it’s up to Yuzu to raise her two-year-old nephew, Shou. The city welfare guy has paid them a visit, but has allowed Shou to remain in Yuzu’s care, largely because their friendly landlady, Mrs. Kusano, is around in a supervisory capacity.

Yuzu goes to school while Shou is in daycare, but she’s never able to participate in any clubs or go on class trips. “Sometimes I’m vaguely jealous of their carefree lives,” she notes. “Even though I chose this path myself.” The chapters are largely episodic, as Yuzu must overcome her fear of cars to get Shou to a doctor, or contend with budget constraints while still providing Shou with a happy Christmas. Even though it’s tough for her to manage all of this, Shou’s adorableness—and the final picture book her sister completed prior to her death—helps remind her what she’s doing it all for.

Eventually, she meets Shou’s father, Takatoh, and together they begin to develop a sense of family. Yuzu also comes to rely more and more on Seita, the neighbor who has long had feelings for her (she’s one of those romantically obtuse heroines) and who is always there when he’s needed, like when Yuzu feels trapped and unable to pursue her dream of becoming a lawyer. In fact, one of the overall themes of the story is that people are fundamentally good and will be there to help you, whether it’s nice ladies in the supermarket who will buy the strawberries (or “stwawbewwies,” as Shou calls them) your nephew supposedly damaged or the schemey girl in class who will nonetheless look after Shou when he gets lost on a camping trip. Yuzu certainly wants to repay the kindness of others, but she’s not too proud to accept help.

I like Yuzu and Seita, but the real star of March on Earth is Shou. Now, I admit that he is a totally idealized version of a toddler. He does have a few flare-ups of disobedience, but for the most part he’s simply sweet and loving all the time. He has a speech impediment, gets dressed in cute outfits, and is impossibly delighted with a miniature version of the toy he really, really wanted for Christmas. No real kid could possibly be this angelic. But who cares? This is warm-fuzzy manga; relax.

Is March on Earth going to rock your world? No. But it might put a smile on your face.

March on Earth was published in English by CMX and is complete in two volumes.

Review copies provided by the publisher.

Unwind by Neal Shusterman

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From the front flap:
In a society where unwanted teens are salvaged for their body parts, three runaways fight the system that would “unwind” them.

Connor’s parents want to be rid of him because he’s a troublemaker. Risa has no parents and is being unwound to cut orphanage costs. Lev’s unwinding has been planned since his birth, as pat of his family’s strict religion. Brought together by chance, and kept together by desperation, these three unlikely companions make a harrowing cross-country journey, knowing their lives hang in the balance. If they can survive until their eighteenth birthday, they can’t be harmed—but when every piece of them, from their hands to their hearts, [is] wanted by a world gone mad, eighteen seems far, far away.

Review:
At some time in America’s future, the second civil war is fought over the issue of abortion. In the end, a compromise is reached. Known as the “bill of life,” the law says that life cannot be touched between birth and age thirteen, but between thirteen and eighteen parents can choose to retroactively abort a child in a process known as “unwinding,” by which the child does not technically die but is instead used for organ donation. Unwinding has now become a common and accepted practice in society.

This is a lot to swallow. One wonders why on earth anyone would agree to such a compromise, and I admit I struggled with the concept. After a while, though, one just accepts it and moves on, enjoying the story Shusterman lays out.

Unwind features three kids who are due to undergo the unwinding process. Connor Lassiter has trouble thinking through his actions and controlling his temper, causing his fed-up parents to decide to have him unwound. Risa Ward is a ward of the state. She’s been living in a state home, working hard to distinguish herself as a pianist, but she’s just not flawless enough to be worth saving, and is scheduled to be sent off to “harvest camp” in order to keep orphanage costs low. Lev Calder is a “tithe,” who was brought up by his parents and church to believe that his eventual unwinding is somehow a holy thing. Circumstances bring the three together, tear them apart, and bring them together again, with no one remaining unchanged.

While the plot of Unwind is certainly fast-paced and frequently surprising, the best thing about it is the way in which the characters are developed. At first, Connor’s lack of foresight and impulse control is maddening. He runs away to avoid being sent to harvest camp, but leaves his cell phone on, making him easy to track. He reacts to a baby left on a doorstep without thinking, saddling him and his companions with an infant they don’t have the resources to care for. In short, he’s more like a typical teen than a typical hero. Very gradually, and with the help from the more logical Risa, Connor evolves. He learns to keep his cool and discovers a talent for fixing things, be they mechanical or societal in nature. He becomes a leader, a genuine hero, and his progress is entirely believable.

Lev also changes a great deal. The youngest of the three, he’s only thirteen, and has spent his whole life being indoctrinated in certain beliefs. When Connor impulsively saves him from his “glorious fate,” Lev is not grateful at all, and turns Connor and Risa in at the first available opportunity. When he realizes that not even his pastor believes that what his family is doing is right, Lev’s world is thrown into turmoil. Separated now from Connor and Risa, he travels on his own, quickly becoming street-wise and meeting up with CyFi, a smart but troubled teen who once received a partial brain transplant from an unwind and is now contending with strange impulses from that other kid. Thrust into the harsh world with no preparation, Lev hardens quickly and learns to think for himself. Through learning of sin and evil, he becomes a much better person than he ever was before.

Risa doesn’t change as dramatically as the others, since she was always level-headed and cognizant of her possible fate. With her, the fact that she’s begun to allow herself to finally hope is what’s significant. I’m fond of her characterization in general, though, especially that she’s capable, competent, and so frequently the voice of reason. Her ability to keep a cool head during medical emergencies is also welcome.

Ultimately, while I could not completely suspend my disbelief in order to buy into the premise of this dystopic future world, I still liked Unwind a great deal. Even though Shusterman makes some Important Points, his approach is still balanced, as he questions whether it’s fair to bring unwanted children into the world in the first place even while his characters struggle so very hard for the right to live. Lastly, I must commend him for a positively chilling depiction of the unwinding process. That will seriously stick with me for a long time.

In conclusion, Unwind is good. Go read it. And Shusterman, get cracking on that sequel (Unwholly, TBA).

MMF: Likeability

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Note: This is the first thing I wrote about Wild Adapter from way back when I was doing Flipped columns for Comic World News. Usually I look at these old things and am visited with an urge to rewrite them from top to bottom, but I stand by every word of this one.

When storytellers devote a lot of narrative space to supporting characters extolling the virtues of their protagonists, it’s reasonable to suspect there isn’t a lot there. That kind of cheerleading can come across an unconvincing hard sell by a creator who suspects on some level that they haven’t provided enough reasons for the audience to reach a favorable opinion on their own.

Most of the cast of Kazuya Minekura’s Wild Adapter pause to muse on the intriguing qualities of Makoto Kubota, the mahjong-loving weirdo at the story’s center. In this case, they have reason, because he’s fascinating. But, then, fictional sociopaths generally are.

Kubota isn’t an especially malevolent sociopath; he’s not a Hannibal Lecter. But he views humankind with blithe, self-serving curiosity rather than empathy. He seems susceptible to neither anger nor warmth, and his interactions are driven by either self-preservation or their potential for amusement. He neatly sums up his worldview in an early chapter after he’s won a leadership position with the yakuza equivalent of Junior Achievement: “It was him or me, and I always choose me.”

So why is he engrossing rather than loathsome? It’s partly due to his imperviousness to opinion, which comes across as genuine as opposed to a constructed posture to win approval. It’s indifference without malice or ulterior motive; he has his interests and his needs, and they really don’t involve other people.

He’s also funny. Even surrounded by a central-casting crowd of mobsters and whores, he doesn’t modulate his behavior in the slightest. He’s quirky, blunt and unpredictable. With the macho posturing and calculating seduction that are part and parcel of the yakuza milieu, it’s not surprising that Kubota makes an impression. He’s refreshing.

I know I’m going on and on about Kubota, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a creator pull off this kind of character as well as Minekura has here. I’ve seen plenty of storytellers try to invest an essentially unsympathetic character with charisma, and some even succeed, but Minekura absolutely nails it.

And liking Kubota, or at least being drawn to him, is absolutely central to liking Wild Adapter. As Minekura says in her closing notes, the first volume is essentially a prologue, allowing the reader to get to know Kubota and his world. There are hints of a plot (something involving a mysterious drug with the kind of side effects that don’t lend themselves to repeated use, so you know it isn’t a product of organized crime), but the volume’s primary function is introductory.

For me, it’s entirely successful. I’m sufficiently engrossed in Kubota to be fairly relaxed about where the plot might go. In a lot of manga I really like, I’ve noticed a high level of symbiosis between characters and the series they inhabit. Carefully crafting protagonists and taking pains to introduce them properly gives a narrative more weight than clever plot construction or instant momentum. (Look at Emma and Nana.) I get the sense that Wild Adapter is going to fit into that mold.

Attractive art never hurts, and Minekura provides. Unsurprisingly, I’m particularly taken with her character designs. There are strong shônen-ai elements to the story, but a cast of ridiculously beautiful boys isn’t one of them.

Minekura’s work is stylized, but her characters still look like people. Kubota’s coolness is more internal than aesthetic; he actually bears more than a passing resemblance to Madarame from Genshiken. Komiya, Kubota’s second-in-command, looks like a kid trying to appear tough, achieving an effect that’s an odd mixture of creepy and vulnerable. The supporting cast is delineated with similar care, even characters that are only around for a handful of pages.

Tokyopop seems to have spared less expense than usual with production. The book opens with some elegant plates with spot-color, and the paper quality is nice. Even better, the translation by Alexis Kirsch and adaptation by Christine Boylan make for very fluid reading. The attention to individual character voices is particularly welcome; it gives the world of the story extra layers.

I admit that when I first heard Wild Adapter described as a teen gangster drama with shônen-ai and science fiction overtones, I wasn’t particularly intrigued. Having read it repeatedly, with no diminishing returns in terms of enjoyment, I’m eager for more. Minekura has brought potentially outlandish story elements into service of a surprisingly nuanced, character-driven drama.

 

3 Things Thursday: Wild Adapter

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One of my favorite quotes so far from this month’s Manga Moveable Feast comes from David Welsh, as he describes why Wild Adapter is, in his words, “bathtub manga.” “Well,” he says, “it’s partly because, empirically good and ambitious as Wild Adapter is, it doesn’t wear its quality on its sleeve. It gives you the opportunity to believe that you’re indulging in a guilty pleasure, even though you’re actually seeing a spectacular piece of craftsmanship.”

David has a habit of writing brilliant things I wish I’d come up with myself, and this observation definitely belongs in that category. He’s absolutely right. One of the things that makes Wild Adapter so enjoyable to read is that it creates a sense of decadent self-indulgence while actually delivering Damn Good Comics. As a result, the experience is completely satisfying, even after the initial glow of frivolity has passed.

With this in mind, I give you this week’s 3 Things…

3 guilty pleasures in Wild Adapter that aren’t so “guilty” after all:

1. Cracktastic plotting. An emotionally detached youth is drawn into the yakuza, only to become unintentionally involved with a mysterious drug that turns its users into mad, hairy beasts, ultimately leading him to adopt a part-man, part-beast to whom he becomes deeply (but ambiguously) attached. Later, the two of them accidentally fight crime. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? And yeah, it totally is. Thing is, all the craziness is so firmly rooted in emotional truth that it somehow actually works. What should be completely unbelievable becomes fantastically believable, leaving readers free to ride high on the adrenaline created by its outrageous, violent adventure, without worrying about a painful crash later on. Minekura writes crazy, but she’s solid to the core, and so is Wild Adapter.

2. Stunning sensuality. Despite this series’ fairly minimal sexual content, it is one seriously sexy manga. I mean, really, really sexy, and that’s not a characteristic I’d attribute to many series, including those that contain a lot of nudity and/or sex. Most deliberately sexy manga are hardly sexy at all, at least in my experience. Of course, what’s sexy about Wild Adapter isn’t actually the sex at all, most of which amounts to small-time crooks getting it on with women they had to pay, or skeevy yakuza bosses coercing their underlings into special service. None of that is what makes this series so sexy, and that’s part why its sensuality maintains itself so well. Minekura creates her manga’s super-sexy aura with superb characterization and an incredible sense of style, without having to rely on less reliable elements like revealing clothing or heavy bedroom action.

3. Boys’ love. Good romance is incredibly difficult to write (with or without explicit sex involved), and though there is plenty of good romance available in the English-language BL market, it’s also full to overflowing with examples of all the ways in which romantic fiction can fail. As a result, it’s a genre that gets little respect among critics, even those who recognize the the real worth of romantic fiction. It’s telling, I think, that TOKYOPOP chose to release Wild Adapter as part of their mainstream line of manga, rather than on their BL imprint, BLU. On one hand, this decision makes good business sense and reflects Wild Adapter‘s wide appeal. On the other, it clearly demonstrates that while TOKYOPOP may have believed that non-BL fans might buy Wild Adapter, they did not for a moment believe that they would buy it with a BL label.

In yesterday’s roundtable, Michelle, David, and I spent some time discussing the ways in which Wild Adapter does and does not conform to common BL tropes. And while it’s true that the series lacks many of the elements that frequently characterize “BL,” what it doesn’t lack is actually the thing I read BL for in the first place, and that would be love between boys. Though Wild Adapter does not contain the worst of the BL genre, it does contain the best, and both Minekura and the genre deserve credit for that. So while I am certainly adamant that non-fans of BL should give Wild Adapter a try, that’s not because the story isn’t BL. They should read it because it’s really good BL, and people should know what that looks like.

Readers, got any “guilty pleasures” that really aren’t guilty at all?

The Josei Alphabet: U

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“U” is for…

Umimachi Diary, written and illustrated by Akimi (Banana Fish) Yoshida, serialized in Shogakukan’s Flowers: Yoshida has been nominated for or won all kinds of awards for this tale of three sisters who meet a half-sister after their estranged father’s death. There’s really no legitimate reason that this hasn’t been licensed yet.

Umi Yori mo Fukaku, written and illustrated by Akemi Yoshimura, serialized in Shogakukan’s Petit Comic, 10 volumes: A fortune teller informs a college student that she’ll be dead within three years. In spite of the psychic’s subsequent arrest for fraud, his predictions seem to be coming true.

Uruwashi no Kouhi Elisabeth, written by Jean Des Cars, Tetsuya Tsukamoto, and Tomoko Naka, and illustrated by Naka, originally published by Tokuma Shoten, two volumes: This series tells the tale of Empress Elisabeth of Austria, who apparently was quite the trailblazer when she married into the Hapsburg clan. (She did not pave new ways by being any more distantly related than first cousin to her husband, Franz Josef, but we blaze trails where we can.)

Utsukushiki Doukyonin, based on a novel by Laura Wright, adapted by Towa Isezaki, originally published by Ohzora Shuppan, one volume: A virginal matchmaker ends up with a hot lothario for a roommate and tries to turn him into marriage material. Try that, Patti Stanger. I dare you.

Uwasaya, written by Ayumu Hosaka, illustrated by Natsume Hasumi, serialized in Ichijinsha’s Zero-Sum Ward: Who better than a super-gifted cosplayer to help capture a vicious serial killer? I don’t know why there isn’t a cosplayer on Criminal Minds, now that I think of it. I mention this series mostly because it’s one of the few Zero-Sum titles that doesn’t look or sound a bunch like every other Zero-Sum title.

What starts with “U” in your josei alphabet?