Manga Bookshelf

Discussion, Resources, Roundtables, & Reviews

Reviews

Sugarholic, Vol. 2

by Leave a Comment

sugarholic2Sugarholic, Vol. 2 | By Gong GooGoo | Published by Yen Press – Thanks to the power of guilt and her desperate need for cash, Jae-Gyu finds herself being reeled in by Whie-Hwan’s proposal that she pose as his girlfriend for a month. Meanwhile, childhood “friend” turned pop idol Hee-Do is dreamy-eyed over a photo of himself with Jae-Gyu, snapped by a fan during their recent encounter (to the extreme dismay of his handlers). Unfortunately, things continue to be difficult for Jae-Gyu in this volume as she faces her new life in the big city. First, she is easily lured into a quasi-prostitution scenario by some unscrupulous coworkers of her friend Hyun-Ah. Later, her brother’s borrowed apartment falls through, leaving her on her own. With all circumstances leaving her more and more dependent on Whie-Hwan for her survival, Jae-Gyu begins to feel a bit attached, but is she in over her head?

Nothing earth-shattering or even truly unexpected happens in this volume, yet the story’s characters remain quirky, charming, and generally fun to read about, which is definitely its primary draw. Jae-Gyu’s childlike tactlessness and oddly random sense of responsibility make her a unique heroine even within a common manhwa mold, and Whie-Hwan’s frequent loss of cool keeps him from fully becoming a genre cliché. It is Hee-Do, however, who provides true mystery in this series with a personality that, at least at this point in time, is just too weird to unravel. This is not a liability by any means. Though his single-minded devotion to Jae-Gyu (who is apparently still anticipating some kind of revenge) is undoubtedly a tad creepy, it is also inexplicably sweet. Lingering over the cell phone photo of himself with Jae-Gyu running away from him he muses over how little the photo does her justice, thinking, “You’re the kind of person who sparkles most when you’re moving.” He’s a character who lives so completely in his head it’s astounding that he’s able to function in the world at all, let alone as a public figure, which may be the secret to what makes him so fascinating.

Further insight into Whie-Hwan’s past is still too vague to be quite compelling in this volume, though it certainly promises future intrigue. The same could be said for the brief sidestep into the story of Jae-Gyu’s brother, which fades into the background all too quickly. Yet, even without major plot development, the volume maintains momentum, thanks to its messy, likable characters.

Though so far lacking the heavily addictive quality of Goong or One Thousand and One Nights or even the fantastic strangeness of 13th Boy, Sugarholic remains a fresh, fun addition to Yen Press’ lively lineup of girls’ manhwa titles.

Review copy provided by the publisher.

Time and Again, Volume 1

by 5 Comments

TimeAgainv1 Time and Again, Volume 1 | By JiUn Yun | Published by Yen Press – Baek-On Ju is lazy, selfish, frequently drunk, and generally rude. He’s also a gifted exorcist, who makes a living hiring out both his talents and those of his companion, Ho-Yeon, a martial artist who acts as his bodyguard. Though this episodic volume hints at tragic histories for both characters, it is mainly concerned with their involvement in the tragedies of others. Some of their clients (such as a mother and son plagued by by the ghost of the son’s wronged wife) are suffering tragedy caused by themselves, while others (such as a couple horrified to hear that their newborn son is destined to die in his teens) face tragedy that has been dealt to them by fate. Included, too, are a couple of seemingly unrelated stories (one gruesome, one sad) which match the others in tone, if not in particulars.

Though this volume’s storytelling is somewhat uneven, especially in terms of character development, there is more than enough to chew on for readers interested in ghost stories, or even eighth-century Chinese culture. The author includes a little bit of Tang Dynasty history in the volume’s end notes, and though she deliberately states that this comic is a fantasy and not meant to be faithful to history, her interest in the period is evident throughout. The stories are steeped in a solemn stew of religion and folklore, finding their inspiration in Chinese poems (like Li Bai’s “Writing in a Strange Place”), Japanese fables (“The Tongue-Cut Sparrow”), and other sources of varying East Asian origin. Even its original title is borrowed from a Goryeo Dynasty-era Korean poet. Though the result of all this inspiration is not nearly as profound or thoughtful as one might expect, the book is intriguing and emotionally affecting all the same.

Though Baek-On is sought out mainly to rid people of their woes, quite frequently there is actually very little he can do for them, as most have created (or had created for them) circumstances from which there is no easy escape, a truth that few of them are able to receive gracefully. The parents of the infant fated to die young, for instance, are unable to accept the fact that there is nothing that can be done to change their child’s future, and even go so far as to camp outside Baek-On’s home until he will give them some kind of hope. That the “hope” he is able to offer them will cause future misery for their son is obvious, though the parents’ insistence on pursuing it anyway is both painfully understandable and inexpressibly sad. The laws of fate and karma held as truth in the story’s universe are unyielding and indifferent to pain or compassion, just its people are stubborn and undeniably human, unable to compromise present happiness to avoid long-term tragedy. What makes this manhwa work best, however, is Baek-On’s bad humor and irreverence juxtaposed over so much grave suffering, providing a wry perspective on the failures of humanity (including his own).

The characters of Baek-On and Ho-Yeon are yet undeveloped, though there is a lot of potential in these early stories. The characterization is very much like the story’s art at this point–surprisingly sparse in places and occasionally difficult to follow–like a work not quite finished, yet still well-formed enough to have a recognizable shape. The story’s paneling in particular is confusing at times, without a clear path for the eye to follow, yet just as with its characters, the story is intriguing enough to inspire some extra effort.

Though Time and Again gets off to a somewhat rocky start, its ominous tone, historical setting, and idiosyncratic characters are certainly encouraging, and suggest strong potential for its future as a supernatural series–a refreshing addition to Yen Press’ manhwa catalogue. I definitely look forward to future volumes.

Review copy provided by the publisher.

U Don’t Know Me

by 1 Comment

U Don’t Know Me | By Rakun | Published by NETCOMICS – “I realized that the reason the two of us couldn’t stand forever in the same place wasn’t just because I couldn’t keep up with his height–a height, by the way, which began outgrowing my own little by little.” – Prologue, U Don’t Know Me

Seyun and Yoojin have been close since childhood, raised like brothers by their parents who were best friends–so much so that when Seyun’s father made the decision to take on the debt left by his own father, Yoojin’s parents offered to take Seyun in as their own child to ease his burden. Though Seyun’s father refused the offer and moved his family to a cheaper neighborhood to tough it out, Seyun and Yoojin remained friends, despite the distance and their ever-shifting lives. …

Read More

Full House, Volume 1

by Leave a Comment

FullHouse1Full House, Vol. 1 | By Sooyeon Won | Published by NETCOMICS – Ellie is a young, independently-minded, Oxford educated screenwriter living in London, far from her native Korea, on an estate called Full House, left for her by her recently deceased father. Having given up on romance with her childhood friend Felix, who became frustrated with her lack of interest in a physical relationship, Ellie is content to live the life of a single career woman in the house she so loves. Her happy existence is disrupted, however, when she is evicted from the house by its new owner, scandal-ridden matinee idol, Ryder Baye. Following her eviction, Ellie lingers on a street corner, pondering her future and vowing to complete the screenplay she holds in her hands. A gust of wind blows the pages into the street, and as Ellie struggles to gather them up, her foot is run over by a passing car, the driver of which turns out to be none other than Ryder Baye.

With Ryder already embroiled in scandal, he and his handlers pamper Ellie in the hospital, hoping to keep the accident out of the news. In a burst of anger and desperation, Ellie suggests that Ryder marry her so that she can recover ownership of her home, an idea which–much to her surprise–is pounced upon eagerly by Ryder’s manager, Miranda, who is anxious to prove that Ryder is not gay. Finally agreeing to a false engagement with a guarantee she can return to Full House (which she will share with Ryder, whom she hates), Ellie begins her new life in the public eye, for better or worse.

Though the setup is classic and so far predictable, Full House has a number of things working strongly in its favor. First of all, Sooyeon Won is delightfully wordy, crafting pages of pithy banter between determined enemies Ellie and Ryder as well as long pieces of narration that read more like a novel than a comic. Though this is the same style responsible for the deliciously overwrought melodrama of her well-known boys’ love series, Let Dai, here it reads as stylish romance with a vintage theatrical feel. Ellie’s quick wit and sharp tongue make her an unconventionally appealing heroine, more interested in her career than her appearance or any other traditionally feminine concerns. Ryder is thoroughly enjoyable as her foil, whose only goals are to do his work and carry on his affairs without hassle. That he is especially drawn to the house that Ellie would do anything to keep gives them one piece of common ground, though this romantic comedy is guaranteed to be volatile for a good long time before either of them recognize it.

Another point in this series’ favor is NETCOMICS’ English adaptation, which reads surprisingly well, even capturing a genuinely British feel in the dialogue, something that is helped along significantly by the decorous third-person narration that accompanies much of the volume. Not having read any of the volumes of this series released by its former licensee, Central Park Media, I can’t compare the two, but considering NETCOMICS’ poor early track record with translation, it seems important to mention how nicely they’ve done with this series so far.

Sooyeon Woo’s art, though not as detailed or beautiful to look at as her work on Let Dai, has a light, sketchy feel that complements the breezy tone of the series, aided further by her playful paneling which keeps the pace brisk despite the abundance of dialogue. Both art and dialogue look clean and crisp in NETCOMICS’ online reader, even at its lower-resolution setting, and even the smallest text is readable against the series’ backgrounds, something that can’t be said for Let Dai.

Despite its questionably believable plot and obvious setup, this series has enough spark and energy behind it to easily propel readers into its second volume. Its fast-paced banter and classic romantic comedy feel make Full House an appealing new addition to NETCOMICS’ manhwa catalogue.

Volume one of Full House is available from NETCOMICS online.

To Terra… Vols. 1-2

by 4 Comments

To Terra… Vols. 1-2
Written by Keiko Takemiya
Published by Vertical, Inc.

Sometime in the distant future, human beings, having conquered their enemies (natural and otherwise) have destroyed their environment beyond repair. Despite the development of warp-speed travel, humankind’s attachment to their home planet is so strong, even the establishment of a strict totalitarian society is preferable to leaving their beloved Terra. Thus the “Superior Domination” (“S.D.”) era is born–a social order intended to slowly bring the planet back to life.

The S.D. method for rejuvenation of its environment involves the development of a society made up of perfectly mature (read: obedient) adults–a circumstance it strives to create by removing biologically created families from the planet altogether. Under a new system mandating test-tube birth, the S.D. young are placed with government-chosen foster parents who provide ideal upbringing on Ataraxia, a planet used only for child-rearing. Once a child reaches the age of 14, he or she must undergo a psychically-administered “maturity test” to determine his or her suitability for adult life on Terra. Passing students will have their memories erased before being transferred to computer-run educational stations, where mental and psychological progress will determine their future employment and social standing as adults on Terra. Failures are unceremoniously eliminated.

The story’s primary characters are Jomy, a human who discovers he is actually “Mu,” a mutated species possessing strong psychic abilities whose members have been driven into hiding, and Keith Anyan, a model student from the S.D. educational system whose role as a Terran elite is to hunt down and destroy the Mu. Over the course of the series’ first two volumes, these characters will plot, scheme, and fight, but though the narrative is compelling, it’s hardly the point.

Two things make To Terra… special. The first is its beauty. Created by Magnificent 49er Keiko Takemiya, the series is filled with lush backgrounds, inspired panel designs, and an expressive sensibility unusual for shonen manga. Interestingly, when compared with the artwork and narrative style of fellow 49er Moto Hagio’s short science fiction series, They Were Eleven (which ran in Shojo Comic in 1975) it’s To Terra… that comes out feeling more typically shojo, with its heart-wrenching internal monologues, bishonen heroes, and boys’ love undercurrents.

Secondly, the series is distinguished by its author’s ambition. Having established her elaborate universe in meticulous, hard sci-fi detail, Takemiya tackles environmentalism, genetic engineering, fascism, ethnic persecution, and even the very nature of human identity, all in three oversized volumes. From a narrative standpoint, this seems doomed to failure. From emotional and visual perspectives, it’s absolutely stunning to behold.

Takemiya’s universe is fraught with emotion–intense psychological pain, brutal terror, soothing comfort, intense loyalty, and a longing for home so deep that it is able to control the fate of societies on two sides of a war. The story’s primary rivals (Jomy and Keith) are both relatable and heroic, each hindered by the biases of his people but special enough to envision something outside what he’s been taught.

Yet for all her characters’ deep thought and sympathetic tendencies, Takemiya keeps her readers at arm’s length. By refusing to choose a clear hero (at least over the course of the first two volumes), Takemiya keeps the door closed to personalization or self-insertion, safely encasing her beautiful, fiery universe within smooth plates of glass.

This is not a bad thing by any means. On the contrary, it’s this impersonal sheen that prevents the story’s melodrama from overwhelming its craft, which is so masterful on an aesthetic level, it would be a tragedy to miss. Though this lack of intimacy feels a bit jarring in the midst of such shojo-flavored visuals, it is the key component in saving the series from collapsing under its own weight.

Can To Terra… succeed in its quest to pinpoint the source of humanity’s fatal flaw or define the nature of identity? Most likely not. Does it matter? Not in the slightest. From its opening pages, To Terra… is an intricate, sci-fi beauty, not to be missed.

Review written as part of the Manga Moveable Feast.

13th Boy, Vol. 1

by Leave a Comment

13th Boy, Vol. 1 | By SangEun Lee | Published by Yen Press – High school girl Hee-Soo is so certain that classmate Won-Jun is her “fated love” that she confesses her love for him on television in front of nine million people. Won-Jun initially accepts her feelings and agrees to go out with her, but then dumps her without explanation after just a month. Unable to accept the break-up and determined to discover its true cause, Hee-Soo resorts to unsavory measures such as going through Won-Jun’s wallet and stalking him both in and outside of school, during which she has several run-ins with Won-Jun’s friend Whie-Young, who always seems to be lurking just at the right moment. As it turns out, Whie-Young has feelings for Hee-Soo which he’s carried since they met as children, an acquaintance Hee-Soo seems not to remember. Meanwhile, Hee-Soo has a talking cactus, Whie-Young has unexplained magical powers, and both Whie-Young and Won-Jun have some kind of inexplicable bond with a female classmate named Sae-Bom, potentially supernatural in origin.

13th Boy is lively, idiosyncratic, thought-provoking, and just a wee bit confusing, at least in its first volume. The title refers to Hee-Soo’s thirteenth boyfriend (Won-Jun, incidentally, is number twelve), “…the fated 13th boy who would be my first love–and my last,” so reads the narration just a few pages in. Though I went in initially believing that the “13th boy” must refer to Whie-Young, by the end I wasn’t sure of anything anymore, least of all this. Almost nothing that is introduced in this volume is explained in a satisfactory way, yet the story’s characters and quirky sensibility are so oddly charming, I can’t help but wish for more.

Hee-Soo is a deceptively timid character–sweet and shy on the surface, she becomes downright forceful (even strident) in her aggressive pursuit of Won-Jun but her belief in their common destiny is so sincere, what might otherwise be irritating just reads as kind of cute with an undertone of pathos. If nothing else, her strong sense of purpose on the subject is at least several hundred times more palatable than the weepy clinginess she thankfully leaves behind early in the volume. Won-Jun at first appears cold and even quite cruel, but there’s a sense of longing hidden under his thick layer of resigned indifference that leaves me wanting to know more.

The character who has captured my deepest interest at this point, however, is Whie-Young–a tangled mess of mystery and contradiction with unexpected kindness on the side. At the end of the volume, when it looks like Won-Jun might actually be Hee-Soo’s fated love after all, my heart was quite broken for poor Whie-Young despite the fact that there is obviously a whole lot of story yet to be told.

Where this volume falls short is that it poses many more questions than it answers, and while mystery is obviously a great way to keep readers hooked into a story, there are just too many random elements introduced to keep things even remotely cohesive. Whie-Young’s powers, the unexplained bonds, the obsession with “destiny,” the talking cactus–each of these things is genuinely fascinating and nicely whimsical, but with not even one of them explained by the end of the volume there is a sense that the story is wandering towards nowhere. Hopefully this is not actually the case.

SangEun Lee’s art is a definite highlight, especially for those of us fond of the particular charms of manhwa. The character designs are as quirky as the characters themselves, with seriously enormous eyes that make the boys especially look rather like aliens. The cactus (Beatrice) looks like an invader from a gag comic against the flowery shojo-style backgrounds. While this might seem jarring in another comic, here it simply matches the story’s playful, otherworldly quality.

Though 13th Boy‘s first volume is scattered and undeniably uneven, its appealing characters and sense of fun provide ample incentive to lure readers into the next volume. I can definitely be counted as one of them!

Volume one of 13th Boy will be available on June 9, 2009. Review copy provided by Yen Press

Andromeda Stories, Vols. 1-3

by

Ah, Keiko Takemiya, how I love your sci-fi extravaganzas! The psychic twins. The giant spiderbots. The evil, omniscient computers. The sand dragons. The fantastic hairdos. Just think how much more entertaining The Matrix might have been if you’d been at the helm instead of the dour, self-indulgent Wachowski Brothers! But wait… you did create your very own version of The Matrix — Andromeda Stories. Your version may not be as slickly presented as the Wachowski Brothers’, but you and collaborator Ryu Mitsuse engage the mind and heart with your tragic tale of doomed love, lost siblings, and machines so insidious that they’ll remake anything in their image—including the fish.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Mitsuse and Takemiya invert the normal order of events in a classical drama and begin Andromeda Stories with a wedding — a royal wedding, to be exact, forging an alliance between Cosmoralia and Ayoyoda, two kingdoms on the planet Astria. On the eve of the ceremony, newlyweds Prince Ithaca and Princess Lilia spot a mysterious blue star pulsating in the night sky. Shortly after the star’s appearance, a meteorite crashes through Astria’s atmosphere with a deadly cargo: an army of nanobots seeking human hosts. Only Il, a fierce female warrior, and Prince Milan, Lilia’s devoted brother, realize that these cyber-critters are rapidly transforming Cosmoralia’s population into a Borg-like race of automatons. Il and Milan set out to liberate Cosmoralia from the grips of this cyber-invasion force before the contagion of violence and fear spreads to Ayoyoda.

As Il soon discovers, there’s a small resistance movement led by the Murat, an alien race who lost their homeworld to the same invading force eight generations earlier. The survivors settled on Astria and married into Ayoyoda’s royal family with the goal of preventing the Astrians from becoming technologically sophisticated enough to attract the nanobots’ attention — and if that effort failed, doing whatever they could to defeat the machines. The Murat’s secret weapon against the nanobots are Jimsa and Affle, twins born to Princess Lilia and kept apart for over twelve years to escape detection by the new regime. Jimsa and Affle both possess the power to kill with a thought, a power amplified when the two fight side by side. Of course, there’s a drawback to so much empathetic energy: if one is injured, the other feels his pain, just like the Corsican Brothers. Then, too, there’s that pesky issue of trust: will Jimsa and Affle ever see themselves as sibilings, or have their separate upbringings driven a permanent wedge between them, thus thwarting the Murats’ hope?

In other words, it’s Star Trek by way of Anne McCaffrey, with a dash of Wagner and a little Arthur C. Clarke for good measure.

One of the things I love most about Takemiya’s work is the way she freely commingles sci-fi and fantasy elements in an effort to suggest the setting: a long time ago, in a galaxy far away. Her characters carry swords and wear togas, and live in castles with turrets, yet employ the kind of gadgetry—mind-reading computers, laser guns—that wouldn’t be out of place on the Death Star. Art-wise, the spirit of Osamu Tezuka lingers over many pages in Andromeda Stories, especially in its busier scenes. The Cosmoralian marketplace, for example, comes alive thanks to Takemiya’s vivid caricatures of merchants, wrestlers, farmers, dancing girls, snakes, and sloe-eyed dinosaurs, while many of the full-page cityscapes suggest the future worlds of Phoenix and Apollo’s Song, with their abundant towers and tubular skywalks. Though Takemiya’s principal characters clearly belong to the world of 1970s shojo with their flowing manes, gypsy outfits, and sparkling eyes, some of her supporting characters — especially Balga, a Bluto-esque bodyguard — look like refugees from Buddha or Dororo. (In a sly nod to the kind of anachronistic humor that Tezuka loved, Takemiya depicts Balga playing with a Rubix’s cube while standing watch outside Princess Lilia’s chambers. 1980, you are so busted!)

Takemiya also demonstrates a Tezukian flair for staging short, effective action sequences that make creative use of panel shapes to convey movement, speed, and distance. Midway through volume one, for example, Il leaps through the canopy of a forest in an effort to investigate a mysterious crater not far outside the Cosmoralian walls:

andromeda_page

In just four panels, we can gauge how far she’s traveled and how high off the ground she is — a point underscored by the tapered edge of the top row’s middle panel. The diagonal border amplifies the effect of the vertical speedlines, drawing the eye downwards in an rapid fashion that mimics Il’s motion. As Derik Badman observes in a concise analysis of this same page, Takemiya uses a number of tricks — drawing two iterations of the same character in one panel, using panel shape to direct the reader’s eye through the sequence, allowing sound effects to bleed outside the panels — to help us trace Il’s path through the tree tops, showing us, in compressed form, how many jumps it takes for her to reach a secure perch. It’s a technique that Tezuka perfected in works like MW, Ode to Kirihito, and Swallowing the Earth, where he gooses very basic components of the layout — especially panel shapes — to evoke the speed and energy of, say, a sword fight or a car chase.

At times, the richness of Takemiya’s visual imagination camouflages the more pedestrian aspects of the story, such as its one-dimensional principals. Lilia, in particular, is the kind of beautiful, virtuous, and long-suffering creature that seems to exist only in old-school Disney movies, while Il is a classic lone wolf, answering to no one, even when it might benefit her cause; the only real novelty here is that Mitsuse and Takemiya assign a stereotypically male role to a female character. The plot is simpler and more transparently allegorical than To Terra‘s, touching on a variety of standard science fiction themes, from the dangers of relegating too much responsibility to machines to the evils of totalitarianism. None of these themes are developed with the same level of sophistication as they are in To Terra, as the characters are generally too busy dodging death rays and mechanized piranha to wax poetic about their inner lives.

If Andromeda Stories never reaches the grand, operatic heights of To Terra, it nonetheless proves entertaining, building steady momentum over its 600+ page run, pausing occasionally to meditate on the nature of free will, creation, and individual responsibility. And c’mon… what’s not to like about a manga that looks like a 1979 cover of Heavy Metal magazine?!

This review is a synthesis of two shorter reviews that originally appeared at PopCultureShock on 10/3/07 and 1/31/08, respectively.

An Introduction to Keiko Takemiya’s To Terra

by

 

Welcome to the May Manga Movable Feast! On the menu: Keiko Takemiya’s award-winning sci-fi epic To Terra. If you’ve never dined with us before, here’s how the MMF works: every month, the manga blogging community holds a week-long virtual book club in which we discuss a particular series or one-shot. Each day, the host shares links to new blog entries focusing on that work, while building an archive for the entire week’s discussion. At the end of the week, the group then selects a new host and a new “menu” for the following month.

Our “feast” has two goals. The first is to promote intelligent, in-depth analysis of manga we love (or, in some cases, hate). Previous contributions have run the gamut from straightforward reviews to an interview with Sexy Voice and Robo editor Eric Searleman, a guided tour through Kaoru Mori’s “Emmaverse,” and an essay contrasting Urushibara’s Mushishi with Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos. The second goal is to foster a sense of community among avid manga readers. Everyone is invited to take part in the MMF, regardless of whether you’ve participated before. If you have your own blog, simply send me the link to your To Terra-themed post, whether it’s a brand new essay written expressly for the MMF or an older review that you’d like the share with the community, and I’ll include it in my daily round-up. If you don’t have a blog, send me your text and I’ll post your ideas here. (Click here for my email.) Discussion begins today and will run through the week until Sunday, May 30th.

Below, I’ve provided an overview of the series’ publication history, plot, and place in the manga canon. You can follow the discussion by checking the daily blog posts, clicking on the Manga Movable Feast tag, or visiting the MMF archive: http://mangacritic.com/?page_id=4766.

TO TERRA: THE PUBLICATION HISTORY

To Terra debuted in 1977 in Gekkan Manga Shonen. During its three-year run, To Terra nabbed two honors: the Shogakukan Manga Award and the Seiun Award, an annual prize for the best new science fiction published in Japan. (To Terra was the first manga to receive a Seiun Award; later winners would include Appleseed, Domu: A Child’s Dream, Urusei Yatsura, Cardcaptor Sakura, Planetes, and 20th Century Boys.)  The series was originally issued in tankubon format in 1980 by Asahi Sonorama, and reissued again in 2007 by Square Enix, around the same time Vertical, Inc. released the first English-language edition.

To Terra has enjoyed considerable popularity in Japan, thanks, in part, to several adaptations: a 1979 NHK radio drama; a 1980 movie, produced by Toei Animation; and a 2007 animated television series, produced by Aniplex.

TO TERRA: THE STORY

toterra2To Terra unfolds in a distant future characterized by environmental devastation. To salvage their dying planet, humans have evacuated Terra (Earth) and, with the aid of a supercomputer named Mother, formed a new government to restore Terra and its people to health. The most striking feature of this era of Superior Domination (S.D.) is the segregation of children from adults. Born in laboratories, raised by foster parents on Ataraxia, a planet far from Terra, children are groomed from infancy to become model citizens. At the age of 14, Mother subjects each child to a grueling battery of psychological tests euphemistically called Maturity Checks. Those who pass are sorted by intelligence, then dispatched to various corners of the galaxy for further training; those who fail are removed from society.

The real purpose of these checks is to weed out an unwanted by-product of S.D.-era genetic engineering: the Mu, a race of telepathic mutants. After decades of persecution, the Mu fled Terra, seeking refuge beneath the surface of Ataraxia. Under the leadership of Soldier Blue, they escaped detection by humans. But Soldier Blue is frail and dying (though he has chosen to project a youthful, sparkly-eyed appearance), and seeks a successor in Jomy Marcus Shin, a 14-year-old who possesses both the telepathic ability of a Mu and the hardier constitution of a human. As the series unfolds, we watch Jomy develop into a formidable leader, capable of inspiring passion, loyalty, and sacrifice among the Mu as they struggle to return to their homeworld. Running in counterpoint to Jomy’s story is that of Keith Anyan, an elite solider-in-training and future Terran leader. Keith enjoys a privileged position in human society. Yet he is plagued by doubt: why doesn’t he remember his childhood? Or his foster parents? And why does Mother refuse to eradicate the Mu when the state has deemed them a threat to mankind?

What makes this unabashedly Romantic mash-up of Star Trek, Star Wars, and 2001 both entertaining and moving is the richness of Keiko Takemiya’s universe. On the surface, To Terra is a beautifully illustrated soap opera, the kind of manga in which the heroes have terrific hair, wear smart jumpsuits, and keep psychic squirrels as pets. But To Terra can also be read a cautionary tale about mankind’s poor custodianship of the Earth; a scathing critique of eugenics and social engineering; a meditation on the relationship between memory and identity; and, most significantly, a critique of adult hypocrisy. It’s this multivalent quality that elevates To Terra from a mere allegory to an epic space opera as engaging, beautiful, and thought-provoking as Tezuka’s best work. (This review originally appeared at PopCultureShock on July 16, 2007.)

TO TERRA: ITS PLACE IN THE CANON

As anyone with a passing familiarity with the Magnificent 49ers knows, the 1970s were a watershed in the development of shojo manga. Not that shojo manga was an invention of the 1970s, of course; shojo manga traces its roots back to the 1910s, when girls’ magazines began running short, one-page gag strips, and underwent several major stages of development before evolving into the medium we know today. Until the mid-1960s, however, shojo manga was written by men for pre-teen girls; the stories were sweet, sentimental, and chaste, often revolving around family, class, and identity in the manner of a Frances Hodgson Burnett story. In an interview with manga scholar Matt Thorn, Keiko Takemiya’s former roommate Moto Hagio remembers the manga from this period:

In the girls’ comics, you would have stories in which the woman you thought was the mother turns not to be the mother, and the real mother is actually somewhere else. There was a variety of settings. For example, the poor child in the story turns out to actually come from a rich family, or the child of a rich family turns to have been adopted from a poor family. And one of the standard device was amnesia… It appeared so often, it makes me think that what with the war and the harsh social conditions, people had an unconscious desire to forget everything. So the heroine goes off in search of her real mother, but along the way she develops amnesia, and ends up being taken care of by a string of kind strangers.

Another popular motif was ballet. There was quite a boom in girls’ comics about ballet for a while. For example, the heroine would be a girl from a poor family who’s really good at ballet, but she loses the lead to an untalented girl from a rich family. In the standard story, there would be a mean girl and a kind-hearted heroine, and there would be a very clear-cut struggle between good and evil.

maryloubunkoIn the mid-1960s, pioneering female artist Yoshiko Nishitani began writing stories aimed at a slightly older audience. Nishitani’s Mary Lou, which made its debut in Weekly Margaret in 1965, was one of the very first shojo manga to document the romantic longings of a teenage girl. (As Thorn notes in “The Multi-Faceted World of Shoujo Manga,” the heroines of early shojo stories were too young for crushes and dates, so romance was the provenance of older, secondary characters.) Though tame by contemporary standards, Mary Lou’s emphasis on the heroine’s emotional life and relationships proved highly influential, paving the way for other artists to write stories that focused on the everyday concerns of teenagers, rather than the melodramatic travails of poor little rich girls.

Nishitani was a pioneer in another sense as well: she inspired dozens of women to enter what had been an overwhelmingly male profession. Those artists who followed Nishitani into the field in the 1970s — women like Takemiya, Hagio, and Ryoko “Rose of Versailles” Ikeda — built on her legacy, helping complete the transformation of shojo manga from staid stories about good girls to a multi-faceted storytelling medium capable of dramatizing the characters’ inner thoughts as forcefully as their physical actions. The 49ers embraced genres such as science fiction and fantasy, and developed new ones as well: the entire boys’ love industry owes a debt to Hagio and Takemiya for ground-breaking stories such as “The Heart of Thomas” and The Song of the Wind in the Trees. Whatever the subject matter, however, the 49ers used the comics medium to explore fundamental questions about identity — what constitutes family? what does it mean to be female? what distinguishes the child from the adult? — and love in all its manifestations, from maternal to carnal.

To Terra, which addresses many of the themes found in Takemiya’s other works, is significant precisely because it isn’t shojo; Takemiya was one of the first female artists to write for a boys’ magazine, bringing a distinctly shojo sensibility to her portrayal of Keith and Jomy’s emotional lives. The popular success of To Terra created opportunities for other manga-ka to cross over as well, a trend important enough for Frederick Schodt to make note of it in Manga! Manga! The World of Japanese Comics (1983). Contemporary artists such Rumiko Takahashi, CLAMP, Yellow Tanabe, and Hiromu Arakawa owe a debt to Takemiya, as she helped demonstrate what seems patently obvious to us now: that women are just as capable of writing for male audiences as men are. Oh, and we can draw a pretty bitchin’ space ship if the story calls for one.

FOR FURTHER READING

Aoki, Deb. “Interview: Keiko Takemiya, Creator of To Terra and Andromeda Stories.” About.com: Manga. January 22, 2008. (Accessed 5/23/10.)

Thorn, Matt. “The Moto Hagio Interview.” The Comics Journal 269 (July/August 2005). (Accessed 5/23/10.)

Thorn, Matt. “The Multi-Facted Universe of Shoujo Manga.” Conference paper. 2008. (Accessed 5/23/10.)

AX, Vol. 1: A Collection of Alternative Manga

by

The next time someone dismisses manga as a “style” characterized by youthful-looking, big-eyed characters with button noses, I’m going to hand them a copy of AX, a rude, gleeful, and sometimes disturbing rebuke to the homogenized artwork and storylines found in mainstream manga publications. No one will confuse AX for Young Jump or even Big Comic Spirits; the stories in AX run the gamut from the grotesquely detailed to the playfully abstract, often flaunting their ugliness with the cheerful insistence of a ten-year-old boy waving a dead animal at squeamish classmates. Nor will anyone confuse Yoshihiro Tatsumi or Einosuke’s outlook with the humanism of Osamu Tezuka or Keiji Nakazawa; the stories in AX revel in the darker side of human nature, the part of us that’s fascinated with pain, death, sex, and bodily functions.

Founded in 1997, AX was a direct descendant of Garo (1964-2002), Katsuichi Nagai’s seminal avant garde manga magazine. As historian Paul Gravett explains in his introduction to A Collection of Alternative Manga, both publications served an essential purpose, providing artists a place to break free of the influence of commercial manga publishing — its rigid house styles, tight deadlines, strong editorial presence, and reader polls — and find more idiosyncratic forms of expression. At the same time, Gravett argues, Garo and AX gave artists a platform for speaking out against the dominant culture, to loudly question the truth that everyone can and should be “doing one’s best” while trying hard to fit in.

The thirty-three stories in A Collection of Alternative Manga nicely illustrate Gravett’s thesis, encompassing a true diversity of styles and subject-matters. At one end of the spectrum are artists such as Yuka Goto, whose work reflects a heta-uma, or “bad-good” aesthetic, with crudely-drawn figures in absurd situations (her feuding neighbors resolve their differences with a judo match), while at the other are artists such as Takato Yamato, whose intricate, naturalistic style becomes a vehicle for juxtaposing pornographically beautiful human bodies with explicit images of decay and rot. Most of the work in AX falls somewhere in between: the magical realism of Akina Kondo (“Rainy Day Blouse and The Umbrella”); the primitivist abstraction of Otoya Mitsusashi (“Sacred Light”); the horror-comedy of Kazuichi Hanawa (“Six Paths of Wealth”); the kawaii-grotesque of Mimyo Tomozawa (“300 Years”). Then there are stories which are parodies in the truest sense, borrowing the visual language of shonen manga for dark farce: Namie Fujieda’s “The Brilliant Ones,” in which an earnest group of students tries to help the class loser find a way to shine — even after his body has exploded into a thousand small parasites — and Tomohiro Koizumi’s “Stand By Me,” a story about a pair of peeping teens caught in the act.

For me, the biggest obstacle to enjoying the collection — as opposed to appreciating it — is that for every story like Ayuke Akiyama’s lovely, folkloric “In the Gourd” or Toranasuke Shimada’s historical phantasmagoria “Enrique Kobayashi’s El Dorado,” there are two that read like stunts, deliberate attempts to provoke, and maybe even disgust, the audience by rubbing its nose in taboo subjects and uncomfortable truths. Such confrontational art can be thought-provoking, to be sure, making us reconsider socially determined categories such as “parent,” “teacher,” and “child”: Yusaku Hanakuma’s “Puppy Love” is one such example, a bizarre, funny, upsetting story in which a woman gives birth to a litter of puppies and resolves to raise them as normal children. The struggles she and her “sons” face remind us of how difficult it is for anyone to raise a child whose behavior or appearance makes others uncomfortable; it’s With the Light, minus the easy sentiment (and with a dollop of David Cronenberg’s perverse sense of humor).

The need to elicit a strong, visceral response from the reader can also inspire puerile excess. Shigiheru Okada (“Me”), Saito Yunosuke (“Arizona Sizzler”), Kataoko Toyo (“The Ballad of Non-Stop Farting”), and Takashi Nemoto’s (“Black Sushi Party Piece”) repeated depictions of body parts and bodily fluids reminded me of sixth graders testing out every permutation of a new swearword to see which ones had the greatest shock value. Other stories, such as Yoshihiro Tatsumi’s “Lover’s Bride,” inspire an immediate ewwwww, and maybe a chuckle, but not much else: what deeper truths could possibly be gleaned from a sad-sack character’s decision to woo a primate instead of a human?

My other stumbling block to fully embracing AX is the way in which female characters are depicted in stories such as Yuichi Kiriyama’s “A Well-Dressed Corpse,” Hiroji Tani’s “Alraune Fatale,” and Osamu Kanna’s “The Watcher.” The female characters often seem more like receptacles for male anger, sexual aggression, or disappointment than they do actual human beings. I suppose one could argue that these artists are simply exaggerating a tendency found in manga across the spectrum, making explicit what’s normally implicit in a lot of material directed at male audiences. Yet none of these artists seem to be critiquing the male gaze in any meaningful way; they cast a pitiless, often lascivious eye on their female subjects, reducing them to a monstrous assortment of breasts and mouths and legs. It’s to editor Sean Michael Wilson’s great credit that he includes so many distinctive female voices in the anthology as well, preventing AX from becoming too dourly macho or grossly juvenile.

Yet for all my discomfort and distance from the material, I can’t look away. As a historian, AX excites me, providing a meticulously curated introduction to Japan’s underground comics scene. As a reader, AX challenges me to move beyond my notion of what constitutes manga, helping me understand what artists like Yoshihiro Tatsumi and Yoshiharu Tsuge were trying to do in the 1950s and 1960s with their “manga that isn’t manga”: to push the medium outside its comfort zone, to show us ugly truths, to make us laugh with recognition and discomfort, and to encourage artistic expression that, in Gravett’s words, is “as personalized as handwriting or a signature.” Recommended.

Review copy provided by Top Shelf. AX, Vol. 1: A Collection of Alternative Manga will be released on July 15, 2010.

AX, VOL. 1: A COLLECTION OF ALTERNATIVE MANGA • EDITED BY SEAN MICHAEL WILSON, WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY PAUL GRAVETT • TOP SHELF • NO RATING • 400 pp.

The Times of Botchan, Vols. 1-4

by

Reading The Times of Botchan reminded me of watching Alexander Sakurov’s cryptic 2002 film Russian Ark. Both employ a similar gambit: a literary figure from the country’s past wanders through a landscape populated by real people who played pivotal roles in its modernization. In Russian Ark, the author/protagonist role is filled by the Marquis de Custine, a French aristocrat who published Empire of the Czar: Journey Through Eternal Russia in 1839, while in The Times of Botchan the role is fulfilled by Soseki Natsume (1867-1916), the defining novelist of the Meiji Restoration. Neither Ark nor Botchan employs a clear, linear narrative; both works are episodic — even, at times, picaresque — in nature as their principle characters rub shoulders with poets, composers, czars, and politicians.

When we first meet Natsume, he is writing a novel called Botchan, a short, satirical work about a energetic young man who suffers from a Holden Caufield-esque desire to expose phoniness wherever he goes. Nastume hopes Botchan will help him achieve catharsis from a vague but nagging sense of anxiety brought on by the period’s social, political, and economic upheavals, from the Freedom and People’s Rights Movement to the first murmurs of suffragism.1 Though we occasionally see Natsume in his study drafting chapters, or admiring the inky paw prints left behind by his cat, much of the manga is devoted to Natsume’s travels through Tokyo, which brings him into contact with historical figures from An Jung-Geun, an activist who assassinated the Korean governor in 1909, to Hiruko Haratsuka, a feminist active in the Seito suffrage movement of the 1910s, to Lafcadio Hearn, a Western journalist whose fascination with old Japan inspired him to write Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things.

Some of these encounters are the jumping off point for vignettes about Westerners living in Japan, or the state of Japanese literature, while others are mere coincidence and treated in just one or two panels. The resulting manga feels like a tableau, or the Japanese equivalent of a guided tour through Colonial Williamsburg, as our unseen narrator identifies the sprawling cast of characters and mentions key events in Meiji-era history.

Despite its historical ambitions, The Times of Botchan is best read for its quieter moments. Jiro Taniguchi creates intimate scenes that require little or no dialogue to convey their nuance: two acquaintances walking silently through a snowing streetscape, Natsume working in his study. Small details capture the transitional nature of the period, and speak volumes about the characters’ ambivalent relationship with the West, with some embracing European dress, others flatly rejecting it, and most, like Natsume, striking a compromise, combining a yukata with a button-down shirt and bowler hat.

Sekikawa’s script, however, is less artful than Taniguchi’s visuals, as the omniscient narrator often supplies the reader with information that can be readily inferred from the pictures. In one scene, for example, the writer Rintaro “Ogai” Mori2 returns to his family after a prolonged stay in Europe. He intends to tell his parents that he loves — and plans to marry — a young German dancer named Elise Weigert, but cannot bring himself to do so now that he is back on Japanese soil. Taniguchi’s illustrations instill in us a powerful sense of Mori’s estrangement from his roots, using his characters’ body language and placement within the picture plane to convey the emotional distance between Mori and his parents, but Sekikawa’s narrator intrudes on the scene:

At that moment, Ogai felt, for the first time, that he was back in Japan. In this country, individualism was not regarded as a personal virtue, the ‘family’ had to be considered. Ogai was unable to speak the words he had prepared and became mute as a fish.

Such heavy-handed interjections suggest that Sekikawa doesn’t trust us to decode moments of mystery, poetry, or ambiguity on our own; at least the Marquis de Custine never bothered to explain why Nicholas II and victims of the Kursk disaster haunted the same wing of the Hermitage.

The Times of Botchan‘s other great flaw is its deadly serious tone. The two novels that Natsume wrote during the period portrayed in the manga, I Am a Cat and Botchan, are both satirical, filled with wry observations about human nature and sharp critiques of pomposity, greed, toadyism, and empty-minded embrace of Western mores.3 Though the manga is filled with visual signifiers for both works — cats, in particular, are a recurring motif throughout the first two volumes — the manga lacks the delicate touch of either novel; one might reasonably conclude from Sekikawa’s narration that Botchan was a Zola-esque expose on the evils of Westernization, rather than a comedy about a young teacher coping with the inept faculty at a podunk boys’ boarding school.

From time to time, however, the narrative snaps out of its staid, vaguely pompous tone. In one genuinely funny scene, for example, Japan’s leading literary figures gather in the home of a prominent politician for a meeting of “The Perpetual and Immutable Literary Circle.” Two are asked to compose a poem on the spot. The first, intoned by the host, is greeted with respectful, if vague praise (“It reminds one of the tranquility and beauty of Turner’s paintings,” one opines):

The great canon is heard from afar
On the left diagonal of the hands that hold the horse’s reins.

The second stuns them into uncomfortable silence:

When the cowherd makes a poem
A new air rises in the world.

A lively debate follows, with some detecting a whiff of socialism in the cowherd’s profession, and others praising it for its direct simplicity; not until the group’s acknowledged expert interprets both poems does the group reach consensus on their quality. The punchline comes in the final panel, when one member acknowledges that the first poem made no sense. In that brief scene, Sekikawa and Taniguchi capture the spirit of Botchan without slavishly recreating a scene from it; one could almost imagine the savage nicknames that a younger, less pretentious member of the circle might lavish on his elders as they debated the merits of both poems.

In another rare moment of levity, Natsume witnesses a young suffragette making out with her paramour in a restaurant, noting the length — three and a half minutes — and intensity of their kiss. Taniguichi draws that kiss in almost pornographic detail, with panel after panel of the two lovers’ mouths drenched in saliva, in essence showing us how Natsume views their contact, with a mixture of prurient fascination and revulsion. Sesikawa and Taniguchi then takes things a step further, borrowing a page from Milos Foreman’s Amadeus to suggest how this brief, everyday experience found its way into the pages of Botchan, with the suffragette morphing neatly into the Madonna, a social-climbing temptress who switches romantic allegiances when it suits her interest.

Given the didactic tone and frequent allusions to unfamiliar historical figures, I’m hesitant to give The Times of Botchan an unequivocal endorsement. Some readers will find the book long-winded, confusing, and perhaps even a little boring. But for those already enamored of Taniguchi’s superb draftsmanship or well-versed in Japanese culture, The Times of Botchan offers readers a lovely reward: a window into one of the most fascinating periods in Japanese history, and the creative process of one its most important voices.

NOTES

1. The Freedom and People’s Rights Movement in Japan began in the 1870s. Building on the reforms established in the Charter Oath of 1868 (which abolished Japan’s rigid class structure, among other provisions), urban intellectuals lobbied for the drafting of a constitution and the creation of a parliament.

2. Ogai Mori is best known to Western audiences for his novels The Wild Geese and Sansho the Bailiff, the latter being the basis of Kenji Mizoguchi’s 1954 film.

3. As translator Joel Cohn notes, Botchan (the novel) occupies a similar place in the Japanese canon as Catcher in the Rye and Huckleberry Finn, and is a standard text in most high schools. See the introduction to Natsume Soseki, Botchan, Translated by J. Cohn (New York: Kodandsha International, 2005).

Review copy of volume four provided by the publisher. This is an expanded version of a review that appeared at PopCultureShock on 6/5/2007. The original review focused on volumes 1-3 of the series.

Future Lovers Available on Kindle

by 2 Comments

One press release that got pushed to the bottom of my inbox during last week’s manga industry shakeup came from Animate USA, announcing two more Libre Publishing yaoi titles for the Kindle. Libre’s jump to Kindle is not news and it’s been reported here before, but what is news is the inclusion of one of my all-time favorite yaoi titles, Saika Kunieda’s Future Lovers.

Future Lovers is one of those few yaoi titles fans of the genre can feel confident recommending to non-fans, standing alongside works by est em and Fumi Yoshinaga. It’s a rare brand of yaoi, featuring a couple of schoolteachers who fall in love and must deal with what that means for them at home, at work, and in the bedroom. It’s both sexy and down-to-earth, a combination not at all easy to come by. Not convinced? Check out my reviews of volumes one and two, or better yet, this fantastic review by Manga Curmudgeon David Welsh. …

Read More

We Were There, Vol. 10

by 1 Comment

By Yuki Obata
Viz, 200 pp.
Rating: T+ (Older Teen)

After volume nine’s jump to the future, We Were There returns again to the past. This volume follows Yano in his first year away from Nanami as seen through the eyes of a classmate, Sengenji. While things continue to decline for Yano’s mother, Yano strives desperately to cling to his long-distance relationship with Nanami, even if this means shutting her out of everything he’s going through. Meanwhile, Yamamoto enters the picture once again and Sengenji battles her own feelings for Yano.

So much of this series revolves around questions of trust, and once again Yano falls short–not in terms of his own trustworthiness, but rather in his inability to trust Nanami with the things she most needs to know. Though he tries to justify this as concern for her, it’s obvious that what he’s really protecting is himself. “Even if wounds heal, scars are left behind,” he says to Takeuchi over the phone, following a labored metaphor about broken plants created to justify shielding Nanami from further truth. “So it’s better not to experience hardship if you don’t have to.”

Even watching Yano stumble, however, it’s impossible not to feel for him, and it’s exactly this kind of emotional ambiguity that this series handles so well. Every poor choice and heartfelt miscalculation is perfectly in-character, forcing readers to examine their own reactions just as in real life.

With its thoughtful tone and exceptional insight into the human mind and heart, We Were There continues to be a must-read for fans of mature shojo.

Review copy provided by the publisher. Review originally published at PopCultureShock.

Saturn Apartments, Vol. 1

by

If I’ve learned anything from my long love affair with science fiction, it’s this: there’s no place like home. You can boldly go where no man has gone before, you can explore new worlds and new civilizations, and you can colonize the farthest reaches of space, but you risk losing your way if you can’t go back to Earth again.

In Saturn Apartments, the physical distance between us and our terrestrial home is small, but the emotional distance is great. The story takes place in a future where environmental devastation has prompted humans to decamp the Earth’s surface for its atmosphere, where they build an elaborate structure that encircles the planet. That floating city resembles Victorian London in its rigid class system and physical organization: the poorest people live in its bowels, in an artificially lit environment, while the richest live on the uppermost levels, enjoying natural light and unspoiled views of Earth.

Our guide to this stratified world is fourteen-year-old Mitsu, a professional window washer who lives on the lowest level. By virtue of his job, Mitsu has access to the entire city. For a boy who’s joined the workforce at an early age, who lives in a cramped room with few possessions, and whose neighbors suffer the ill effects of chronic light deprivation, his clients, most of whom live on the top floors, seem ridiculous and exacting. At the same time, however, they intrigue Mitsu; not only do they give him a glimpse into a more affluent way of life, they also own things — animals, machines, plants — that connect them to the Earth’s abandoned surface.

As these organisms and objects suggest, all of Saturn‘s characters suffer a strong sense of terrestrial homesickness. Midway through volume one, for example, Mitsu meets an eccentric zoologist who maintains an enormous private aquarium in his apartment. The man’s aquarium and his bizarre request that Mitsu splash water on the windows — something that’s impossible to do at an altitude of 35,000 kilometers — initially seem like a wealthy man’s whims; that is, until Mitsu learns that the zoologist is trying to create a more congenial environment for the aquarium’s prized specimen, the last surviving whale from a failed effort to reintroduce mammals into Earth’s oceans.

In other chapters, the characters’ longing to go home is more palpable. When Mitsu tackles his first assignment, for example, he finds himself at the very site where his father Akitoshi, also a window-washer, plunged to his death. Mitsu sees evidence of his father’s presence — a frayed rope, handprints on the side of the building — and though he interprets the evidence as proof of Akitoshi’s desperate struggle for survival, Mitsu is briefly seized by the thought that his father wanted to die, that Akitoshi cut the safety line so that he might fall back to Earth. Mitsu himself struggles with that same impulse; caught off guard by a strong solar wind, he finds himself dangling precariously above the Earth, mesmerized by the sight of the African continent spreading below him:

saturn_earth

Only the intervention of Jin, an experienced co-worker, snaps Mitsu out of his dangerous reverie and spurs the boy to take corrective action. Once safely tethered to a lift, however, Mitsu peers over the side for another glimpse of the surface, resolving to one day “find the spot down there where Dad landed.”

Like Planetes, Saturn Apartments is less a tale of intergalactic derring-do than of ordinary people doing extraordinarily dangerous, tedious work in extreme environments. Most of what we learn about the characters comes from observing them on the job, as they banter with co-workers, perform routine tasks, and respond to crises. In Saturn Apartments, Akitoshi’s death — an event that took place five years before the story begins — casts a long shadow over the window washer’s guild. The mystery of what happened to Akitoshi plays an important role in advancing the plot, to be sure, but most of the story explores the way in which Mitsu comes to terms with his father’s death through learning Akitoshi’s profession and befriending Akitoshi’s colleagues.

The other thing that Saturn Apartments and Planetes have in common is beautiful, detailed artwork that conveys a strong sense of place. Hisae Iwaoka’s landscapes bustle with activity, showing us how the apartment dwellers go about their daily business. Each level has its own distinctive appearance, from the basement tenements — where Mitsu and Jin live — to the middle level — a tidy grid of schools and mid-rise buildings dotted with grassy parks — to the very top — a collection of spacious lofts with enormous windows. Iwaoka renders all of these environments in gently rounded, slightly imperfect lines that make the complex look warmly inviting, rather than sterile and prefabricated; even the very lowest levels of the complex are appealing, their close yet friendly quarters reminiscent of fin-de-siecle Delancey and Mulberry Streets.

Saturn Apartments is many things — a coming-of-age story, a set of character studies, a meditation on man’s place in the greater universe — but like all good space operas, its real purpose is to affirm the truth of T.S. Eliot’s words, “We shall not cease from exploration/And the end of all our exploring/Will be to arrive where we started/And know the place for the first time.” Highly recommended.

Review copy provided by VIZ Media, LLC. Volume one of Saturn Apartments will be released on May 18, 2010. To read the first eight chapters online, visit the SigIKKI website.

SATURN APARTMENTS, VOL. 1 • BY HISAE IWAOKA • VIZ • 192 pp. • TEEN (13+)

Kimi ni Todoke: From Me to You 4 by Karuho Shiina: A-

by

When Sawako Kuronuma was ostracised by her class due to her gloomy disposition and resemblance to a character from a horror movie, she never would have guessed that there are so many nuances to interactions with other people. Because of her inexperience in this area, she hasn’t learned to be distrustful, and so accepts as genuine the friendly advances of Kurumi, a girl who wants Kazehaya-kun for herself.

Kurumi does everything within her power to convince Sawako, who is growing increasingly curious about the depth of her feeling for Kazehaya, that what she feels for him isn’t anything special, and that she ought to try chatting up some other guys for the sake of comparison (then arranges for Kazehaya to witness this, of course). Things backfire for Kurumi, though, as Sawako manages to interpret this advice in the best possible light and ends up confirming and accepting that what she feels for Kazehaya is genuine love.

This is a huge step for Sawako, and her happiness at this achievement in self-discovery is contagious. In fact, the depiction of her thought process as she works this out is simply terrific throughout, as is that of Kazehaya as he realizes that, no matter what he may personally feel, Sawako is still not ready to begin dating anyone. The skill with which nonverbal and internal storytelling convey these revelations to the reader elevates Kimi ni Todoke beyond other sweet love stories and into the realm of great manga.

Review copy provided by the publisher. Review originally published at Manga Recon.

Kimi ni Todoke: From Me to You 3 by Karuho Shiina: A

by

From the back cover:
Sadako finally becomes friends with her classmates, instead of scaring them off. Even Kurumi, the cutest girl in school, wants to be her friend. But will this new friendship make Sadako realize that her feelings for Kazehaya might be more than just friendly?

Review:
I was bowled over by the surfeit of cute in this volume of Kimi ni Todoke. Let us count the ways!

1. Sawako has begun doing things after school with Yano and Yoshida, and is absolutely thrilled. Her parents are also adorably excited for her.

2. Sawako is beginning to realize that Kazehaya is a boy, and that she likes him in a way that is different from how she likes her other new friends. This results in her being somewhat flustered in his presence, which leads to him being flustered right back. Seriously, when these two are together, they just glow, and the art and pacing really make these moments special.

3. Yano and Yoshida are extremely awesome, and nudge Sawako into doing things like calling Kazehaya on the phone or dropping the -kun when she addresses him. Her reactions are cute, but Kazehaya’s are especially telling. Yano and Yoshida are kind of evil in how much they tease him, but their machinations result in a story that shows these characters’ feelings for each other rather than simply telling us about them.

4. Sawako’s friends have to inform her that she has earned the right to call them by their first names, because she’d never presume to do so otherwise. In fact, there’s a lot of emphasis on honorifics in this volume, making it a great candidate to prove why it’s necessary to retain them in translations.

I continue to love that friendship is so important to Sawako. Though she’s finally beginning to realize her romantic feelings for Kazehaya, her friends play a big part in that, encouraging her to reach out to him a little more and putting the two of them in situations where they can interact. Yano and Yoshida are at least tied with Hanajima and Uotani from Fruits Basket in the category of Best Best Friends.

A rival for Kazehaya’s affections—Kurumi, a girl he knew in junior high—also appears in this volume. I like that she’s not as over-the-top villainous as some rivals have been, but is still somewhat scheming. Happily, Sawako balks at Kurumi’s request to help her get together with Kazehaya; it’s evident that Kurumi thought Sawako was so self-effacing she’d just bend over backwards to accommodate her new friend’s request. It’s clear, too, that Kurumi knows exactly how Kazehaya feels about Sawako, thanks to some more excellent nonverbal storytelling.

In the end, this volume solidly establishes Kimi ni Todoke as one of my current shoujo favorites. I liked the first two volumes a lot, but now that Sawako and Kazehaya are hesitantly moving closer to a relationship, it has escalated to a new level of greatness.

Review copy provided by the publisher.