It’s just a few days before Christmas and you think you’ve got it all under control. Food shopping is done, presents are all bought and wrapped.

Or at least so you thought. Turns out you forgot someone. A work colleague. An aunty you just found out is coming to visit. The wife. The inconsiderate bastards have turned up with a present for you, and you’ve got nothing to give them in return. Plus they’re diabetic tea-totalers, so the usual chocolate and/or booze option is out of the window. In other words: you’re screwed.

Thankfully, I have the answer for you: Chi’s Sweet Home by Konami Kanata.

“What?” I hear you say. “Have you finally lost your judgmental, drug-addled limey mind? Is it so full of tea and crumpets that sense can no longer penetrate? I have read about you on the internets, and it appears the stories are true. You expect me to give my poor unsuspecting boss/aunty/spouse some of your mind-rotting, big-eyed manga filth!? And at Christmas to boot!”

Yes. Yes I do. But let me be clear: while Chi’s Sweet Home does indeed feature big-eyes, they belong to an adorable kitten. And who likes kittens? EVERYBODY. Everybody, that is, apart from soulless monsters that should be shunned at this time of the year anyway. And as far as filth is concerned there is little here, unless you include the contents of a litter tray, which does play a fairly prominent role in the first volume.

Running since 2004, Chi’s sweet home is the adorable story of a small kitten that becomes separated from his mother and taken in by a typically Japanese family. A huge hit in Japan it spawned two anime series and a vast amount of merchandise, most of which my partner seemingly bought when we visited Tokyo back in 2008. So I was thrilled when Vertical snapped up the rights to an English translation earlier this year, and review copies of the first volumes turned up on my doorstop – a feeling that lasted fleetingly before my aforementioned partner snatched them out of hands.

Having now regained them, I can confirm my initial suspicions were true – Chi’s Sweet Home is a perfectly formed series of short and sweet books, with appeal way beyond the scope of the ‘traditional’ manga fan. Told from the perspective of the eponymous kitty, it presents situations that all cat owners will be all too familiar with in a refreshing and light-hearted way. In fact it does this so efficiently that, by giving you a view into internal cat-logic, it almost doubles as a kitten care manual. But most importantly it’s a huge truckload of beautifully presented fun, and the perfect stocking filler for anyone with a love of cats, regardless of whether they’ve ever picked up a comic book before.

And while we are on the subject of Vertical books and Christmas gifts, some of you may remember my review earlier in the year of the first volume of Twin Spica. Since then I’ve caught up with the second and third volumes, but rather than writing reviews you can hear me rambling on about them over on Ed Sizemore’s Manga Out Loud podcast alongside a veritable A-List of panelists. In brief I’m still enjoying the series, despite it seemingly shifting its emphasis away from science fiction to concentrate on more mundane shoujo (manga aimed at teenage girls) drama. It’s a great last minute gift for the gutsy teen-girl in your life, though with a little bit of shower-scene and beach costume fanservice seemingly shoe-horned in to remind you it originally ran in a seinen magazine, it’s also the perfect gift for the otaku man-child in your life too.

Season’s greetings.

This review is part of the Movable Manga Feast – a monthly get together of manga bloggers and critics where everyone gives their thoughts on the same title. This month it is being hosted by the legendary Ed Sizemore over at Manga Worth Reading.

Ginko treats those infected by mushi for a living, strange ephemeral creatures that seem to be part insect, part yōkai style Japanese spirits. They come in a seemingly infinite myriad of forms, but an infection is rarely a pleasant thing; some will leave you blind, some will make you grow horns, while others will make you dream of futures you’d rather not see. All of them, it seems, have the potential to change and wreck lives.

Written and drawn by Yuki Urushibara at the beginning of the last decade, the first thing that strikes you about Mushishi is its incredibly gentle, almost trance-like atmosphere. Although punctuated by occasional acts of violence or – more likely – visually disturbing, ‘body-horror’ style exorcisms, the stand alone stories presented in these two volumes all share the same, near hypnotic pacing. From the often minimal dialogue to the frequently hallucinogenic artwork the aim seems to be to intoxicate the reader, leaving you wondering exactly what blend of herbs this laid back medicine man is smoking in his ever present, hand rolled cigarettes.

In fact it’s Ginko’s slightly disheveled but charismatic appearance that helps drive one of Mushishi’s most interesting thematic devices. Constantly smoking and wearing a scruffy overcoat, though seemingly young and athletic with a mess of unkempt hair, he comes across as a super-cool mix of Spike Spiegal and Peter Falk’s Columbo. Either way, he should cast an unusual figure in the rural Japan that he inhabits, where almost without exception every inhabitant wears a kimono or similar traditional garb, but unless you break from the intoxicating world to consider it he just seems to fit in. In the notes in the back of Volume 1 Urushibara says she originally planned for some of the stories to have a contemporary setting, but mainly they ended up not “set at any particular time. Japan still in time of isolation, maybe? Or it feels like an age set between the Edo and Meiji periods. That’s the image I get anyway.”

This unusual, but always natural feeling, atemporality gives Mushishi a unique approach to examining a recurring theme in post war Japanese storytelling; the nation’s conflict between the feudal/spiritual and the modern/technological. Wearing his modern clothing and skulking through this timeless – but always somehow ancient – Japan, Ginko almost fulfills the the same role as Kyōgokudō in the novels of Natsuhiko Kyogoku, a man of rational thinking solving problems caused by superstition. But here in Mushishi it’s not that straight forward; things are far more muddied. The world here runs on different rules, where the mushi can and do cause what appear to be the fantastical and supernatural to occur. Paradoxically they can also be explained by a kind of quasi-science – somewhere between folklore and biology, where they can be cataloged and shown to exist in logical ecosystems. It’s almost as though Urushibara’s approach to this very Japanese conflict between the traditional and the modern is tinged with regret, as if she feels that although a more scientific national identity was inevitable that perhaps Japan has lost something, and she yearns for a imaginary time where folklore spirituality and science could co-exist.

It’s a fascinating idea, and one that works largely works well. If Mushishi has faults it’s that perhaps there’s little else here – sometimes the short stories work, other times they fall flat. These first two volumes at least lack characterization of much depth, Ginko’s past and own personal attachment to the mushi is only hinted at at best, while the other cast members are largely fleeting vehicles for the story and the mushi they carry. With its short, episodic form and enigmatic ‘healer for hire’ lead I was instantly reminded of Black Jack, but the moral questions and dilemmas of Tezuka’s classic are mainly absent here, and the tales feel disappointingly lighter for it. Not that it always misses, at times the balance between the gentle pacing and more disturbing aspects of mushi possession is perfect and darkly compelling, but there are a few too many occasions where it fails to reel in enough attention and commitment from the reader.

Not that I’ll let this put me off from reading more – and I wouldn’t let it put you off from trying these volumes out either. They represent the debut work of a young artist, and while perhaps lacking focus in character exploration and narrative efficiency they still show an abundance of talent and imagination, which are never things to pass lightly by.

Thirteen-year-old Asumi Kamogawa dreams of nothing else than becoming an astronaut, and while it may seem a lofty ambition at the best of times its one that carries an extra burden for the young school girl. When the first Japanese manned spacecraft Shishigō exploded mid-flight, the falling debris – both political and physical – decimated not only the nation’s ambitions in space but also left Asumi’s mother dead. Now she lives with her struggling father, scared of telling him that she has been accepted into the Tokyo Space School, and is about to be taken from his life by the same thing that took his wife.

It’s a powerful set up for Kou Yaginuma’s Twin Spica, a manga series that made an equally strong impact when it debuted in Japan in 2001, spawning not only an anime series but also a live action TV drama. As such it is perhaps – with the obvious exception of the forthcoming Chi’s Sweet Home – Vertical’s most commercial or mainstream license to date. But rest assured; based on this first volume it lives up to the high standard of quality and maturity that have become their trademark.

At its heart is a tale of the battle between nostalgia and progress, both for the space program and Asumi herself. Helping the teenager get to grips with the split of loyalty between her father and her dreams is Mr Lion – apparently a figment of Asumi’s imagination or the spirit of an astronaut that perished in the Shishigō disastor – and seemingly an interesting nod towards Miyazaki’s My Neighbour Totoro. What makes this struggle between the two even more interesting and absorbing to read is how Yaginuma allows it to dictate the style of both his art and writing; contrasting the warmth of family life with the cold isolation of simulated space in the school’s training program. In this way it often reminded me of Makoto Shinkai’s Voices of a Distant Star, with its frenetic space battles contrasting with childhood memories, though here it’s the more mundane but equally deadly threat of another space disaster, the fear of which the Tokyo Space School attempts to drill into its students.

It is this that dominates the second half of this volume, as Asumi finds herself thrown into a daunting test along with two other girls. To give away the details of what they must do would spoil one of the cleverest aspects of the plot, but it’s enough to say that it allows Twin Spica to show how it effortlessly blends shojo drama and hard science fiction, as the girls must overcome both personal difficulties and the harsh practicalities of space travel. It is also where perhaps Twin Spica shows one of it’s very few weaknesses – the other students Asuma meets at the school seem at first glance to fall into very familiar manga stereotypes – the over confident pretty boy, the uptight otaku, the bitchy and elitist girl – but hopefully as the story progresses these characters will open up as relationships are formed and barriers dropped.

As always for Vertical prints the preview copy I was supplied with is of fantastic quality, though felt surprisingly light compared to their other recent, tome-like offerings. Not that I’m complaining at all; it’s a quick and engaging read, and I mainly mention it because it left me thirsting for more. The preview copy also includes two short, one-off pilot stories Yaginuma wrote introducing the events and characters – one of which is available on Vertical’s website. The coupling of sci-fi and personal drama is reminiscent of Makoto Yukimura’s Planetes – a personal favourite of mine – but with a more teenage and female orientation, providing a refreshing alternative to both the staid shojo works and dark science fiction manga I have read recently, with the book clearly poised to become a sure-fire hit with fans of both genres.

An extra special treat for Tezuka Month – when I was in Thailand in January I was lucky enough to stumble across this edition of art and design mag A Day with a huge section dedicated to Astro Boy. Presumably timed to coincide with the release of the recent movie over there – nothing that special in itself, until you start to flick through it and realise that it’s clearly a publication that prides itself in it’s imagery, design and layouts.

For a start, check out this transparent overlay showing a cut-away image of Astro’s workings – a great bit of magazine design work:

Similarly, in the front cover there’s an insert showing how the look of Astro has changed over the decades in his various incarnations:

In total there’s way over 20 pages of this stuff – covering Tezuka, his other creations, and Astro Boy merchandise amongst more – all beautifully laid out and put together. Sadly I can’t read any of the text because its all in Thai, but it really doesn’t matter, it’s just so gorgeous to look at. It’s funny, just the other weekend on the Anime 3000 podcast we were discussing the future of magazine publishing and new technologies, but digging this out again to have my first proper look since I got home reminds me just how impressive printed media like this can be when done right. Check out the image gallery below to see what I mean.

This is the first in a few posts making up my – slightly last minute – contribution to Tezuka Month, that was kicked off by Evan Minto and the guys over at Anigamers. Starting with this look at Vertical’s recent paperback reissue of MW, I’ll be posting a few different things up over the next few days.

From the first few pages its clear that 1976′s MW was Tezuka proving that he could write for an adult audience beyond the teenage consumers of Astro Boy and Black Jack, as the reader is bombarded with images of violence and – perhaps symbolically – the graphic death of a small boy. The book is littered throughout with events and images designed to surprise and disturb, but it never scoops as low as just pure shock tactics – instead MW demonstrates the manga master weaving a thrilling and thought-provokingly tense thriller that forms what was perhaps Tezuka’s most darkly adult work.

The book revolves around a cover-up of a chemical weapons test gone wrong on a Japanese island, a disastrous blunder that leaves an entire community dead. Only two witnesses survive – and several years after the event these two become the story’s central protagonists. The first is the enigmatic young bank clerk Michio Yuki, who’s exposure to MW – the deadly chemical of the aforementioned incident – has apparently lead him to becoming a violent sociopath. As a result he leads a secret life as a criminal mastermind, extortionist and woman-hating serial killer. Driven by a twisted sense of justice following the incident and what he saw as a young child on the island, the book follows him as he pursues a campaign of revenge against those responsible, those that hid the truth and ultimately the rest of the human race as a whole.

Our second lead player is the even more complex – and perhaps even more psychologically damaged – Father Garai. A Catholic priest and Yuki’s only true friend, he is haunted by guilt and his own perceived sin; not merely as his position stops him from revealing Yuki’s actions to the authorities but also because he partly blames himself for the young man’s rampage of terror. While the other inhabitants of the island perished in the accident, he and Yuki survived by accidentally hiding in a cave where Garai found himself sexually abusing the young boy, and 16 years later they are still lovers in the most forbidden of secret relationships. Torn between his desires and a sense of responsibility towards Yuki and his horror at his actions Garai spends the entire story grappling with his conscience and seemingly on the verge of becoming insane himself.

It’s this complex interplay between the two that Tezuka uses to explore the main theme of MW; the perceived conflict between good and evil. At first glance it is easy to see the two man taking these sides, but Tezuka never once allows anything to be so cut and dried. For every disturbing rape and murder we see Yuki commit we can still feel empathy for him and the pain of his childhood scars, and for all Garai’s moral righteousness it’s impossible not to see the blood on his cowardly hands. Tezuka uses these two to show the reader that far from a black and white conflict, the relationship between good and evil is in fact a symbiotic one; that just as Garai’s abuse helped create the killer Yuki, the priest’s abhorrence at his lover’s actions drove him into joining the clergy. And not only does good create evil and vice-versa, but the two require each other to continue to define themselves, the suggestion being that if this conflict then neither side can be victorious without losing all meaning and relevence.

It’s an ingenious and thought provoking angle of attack by Tezuka one of his favourite targets – organised religion – but it’s not the only one he takes aim at. Just as in Black Jack and his other works we see the media, politicians, corrupt business men and naive revolutionaries all feel his wrath, in his usually elegant yet blunt style. Along the way he pauses to tackle a number of other themes from the treatment of homosexuals in 1970′s Japan to the corruption of the country’s political parties. Of particular note is his assessment of Japan’s post-war dominance by America; the nation’s timid impotence in the face of their victorious enemy framed in stark contrast to Yuki’s unwavering virility; and it seems to be an interesting fore-shadowing of themes explored decades later by the likes of Mamoru Oshii and Katsuhiro Otomo.

The influence on Otomo and others’ work is apparent elsewhere too, especially in the fantastically accurate looking drawings of Tokyo’s architecture, where Tezuka seems to be enjoying his chance to draw the real over the fantastic for once. The art through-out is engaging and immaculate, and it’s a thrill to see him depicting the dark and disturbing in truly graphic detail – if it’s not clear yet then let me spell it out – MW is not a work for young children, by any stretch of the imagination.

As enthralling as the book is, it’s not without its flaws. For a start it’s portrayal of women, while perhaps a sign of the restrictions of Japanese society at the time, seems somewhat two-dimensional as they fall unquestioningly into Yuki’s murderous arms. Similarly a few leaps of believability are occasionally needed by the reader in order for Yuki’s schemes to succeed, especially when he passes himself off as a member of the opposite sex. His brother being a famous cross-dressing kabuki actor is used to explain this to a certain extent, but it still pushes plausibility when he’s impersonating a woman that the other characters are personally familiar with.

Not that any of this is should distract from your enjoyment. While Tezuka is famed for his ability to add depth and meaning to his children’s stories, it’s exhilarating to watch him work on an unashamedly adult tale. If you think you know his work but you’ve yet to read MW, then this book may very well challenge your perceptions. Which is, for me at least, something to always be relished.

Review based on a copy provided by the publisher.

Six year-old Yuki Tachibana sees and hears things his classmates never do; the bizarre forms and whispering voices of the strange, supernatural creatures that secretly inhabit his elementary school. Despite the fact that this dubious gift has made him an outcast from his fellow students he seems quietly accepting of his place – that is until he finds the always-empty seat next to him occupied by transfer student Makoto Suzuki, whose attempts to befriend him coincide with the arrival of the ‘others’ – a second group of spirits vying for control of the cold, decaying school building.

Over the last couple of decades Taiyo Matsumoto has justifiably gained a following as one of Japan’s most talented and intellectually challenging mangaka, with his critically acclaimed story of homeless street fighting children Tekkonkinkreet: Black and White not only cementing his reputation in the west but also spawning a lavish, high budget big screen adaption courtesy of influential anime producers Studio 4°C. While both Tekkonkinkreet and this latest work of his look at the perception of reality from the viewpoints of children labelled as ‘special’ or even ‘disturbed’, GoGo Monster is perhaps even vaguer and less direct than it’s predecessor, and as a result is arguably even more powerful for it.

At first glance the subject matter coupled with Matsumoto’s enthralling yet gloomy artwork gives the impression of a near-generic Japanese horror story, but in truth it’s surprisingly closer to a gently paced, psychological mystery. Up until the final pages the reader is left guessing as to whether they are enjoying a supernatural tale or a study of delusion and imagination. Scattered throughout the book are possible clues and red herrings, from the schoolyard rumours of teacher suicides to flight path roars of the passing airliners that rhythmically interrupt the flow of the panels. Are any of these significant? Again Matsumoto refuses to answer his readers, instead leaving them with a desire to flip back and re-scan previous pages in an attempt to piece their own interpretation together.

Certainly one reading it is easy to come away from with is that it is a study of Yuki’s possible autism.  The way he is ostracised from his classmates is both skilfully depicted and moving, and watching newcomer Makoto’s attempts to befriend him whilst also fit in with the other students is heartbreakingly familiar to anyone that’s struggled to communicate with a severely autistic child. Throughout the story Makoto seems torn between wanting to believe his new friend and trying to convince him to accept reality, while Yuki himself remains convinced of what he sees and hears despite wanting to embrace this new human contact. Perhaps this conflict is manifesting itself in the emerging struggle between rival spirits that Yuki perceives and obsesses over  – but again Matsumoto refuses to spell it out, leaving a number of interpretations open.

With this in mind, it’s also easy to view GoGo Monster as an examination of one of manga’s most prevalent and played out archetypes – the ‘supernaturally sensitive child’. Even if this isn’t Matsumoto’s expressed intention it’s a chilling and fascinating look at what has become a generic staple of Japanese literature, film and manga since centuries old yokai folk stories.

While western comics and graphic novels largely split the work of artist and writer between at least two individuals, the tradition continues in Japan of the mangaka creator taking both roles. Too often the failings of this way of working become apparent in either lack-lustre artwork or – more usually – in generic plotlines, but when both excel it hammers home to talent of the creator. GoGo Monster fortunately falls into this exclusive latter bracket, with Matsumoto’s artwork being a joy to pour over, each panel conveying the childish humanity of his protagonists, the sparse intimidation of school corridors and awkward chaos of the playground. At times it takes on a hallucinatory edge, from subtle images hidden within other to full-on trips of the imagination. Coupled with the fantastic quality of Viz’s print of the English translation – I weighty hardback in a handsome slipcase – it’s a perfect example of manga as a mature, desirable art form, and a perfect introduction to one if it’s most important and talented creators.

Ironically, the titular anti-hero takes a bit of a back seat in my favourite Black Jack story to date. Instead it is left to a company president and a construction worker to make the hard moral decisions in High and Low, taken from the first of these three latest Black Jack collections. Set during a recession, and highlighting the disparity in status – but also the common human bond – between corporate fatcats and the working class it can’t help but touch a nerve in today’s economic climate. A stunning example of Osamu Tezuka’s continued relevance, it’s tempting to call it a stand-out story, but in honesty that would be doing the other tales here a disservice.

I’ve been a busy man recently. The end of last year was hectic, and my review pile grew to near teetering point. Wracked with guilt, I grabbed the copies of Black Jack 7 and 8 with me as I headed out of the door on my way to Thailand. When I actually got to sit and read them I felt profoundly stupid at having not made the time for them sooner. I had a nightmare getting home from that trip, and the icy greyness of the UK weather brought me down to Earth hard, but it was all made a lot easier when I found a review copy of Volume 9 sitting on my doormat when I got back.

Some of you may remember how impressed I was last year on rediscovering Black Jack through Volume 5 of the Vertical Inc printing. For those that don’t or are new to series, a quick re-cap: Black Jack is an unlicensed, back street surgeon – who just happens to also be the best cutter in the world. As well as brief, effective bursts of action and medical drama the stories mainly focus on dark, often startlingly thought-provoking, tales of moral judgment. The enigmatic play off between Black Jack’s mercenary approach to medicine and his unwavering moral standards are all the more interesting when you learn Tezuka himself trained to be a doctor, and seems to be using his creation to reveal his own views on the medical profession.

But it’s far more than just doctors whom Tezuka is targeting in these volumes. Politicians, businessmen, lawyers, celebrities, property developers and even a writer unnervingly like Tezuka himself come under Black Jack’s scalpel, with their moral fibre being dissected as much as their damaged organs. As mentioned at the beginning of this review Tezuka’s tales feel shockingly relevant today, despite having been written over 30 years ago. Partly it’s because they focus on classic moral dilemmas, but also because they are presented in a setting that shows a unique understanding of the modern world. Over these 3 books Black Jack seemingly travels to every continent to ply his grisly trade, but even when out in the wilderness the setting seems contemporary and familiar, as though we are looking at a timeless snapshot of a world struggling with the conflict between capitalism and human dignity. To any reader today it’s an instantly familiar world.

That’s not to say it’s heavy reading; Black Jack’s greatest strength is it’s accessibility. Don’t worry about what order you pick the books up in; every chapter within is perfectly self-contained. The stories are short and immaculately punchy, their seriousness punctuated with bursts of action and comedy, often at the author’s own expense. Then there’s Pinoko, yet another Tezuka nod to Pinocchio, Black Jack’s somewhat freakish little girl creation, who provides light relief and and heart-wrenching tragedy in equal doses. As the comic was originally written for a young audience, the protagonists of the stories here are quite frequently children, but Tezuka never shies from giving both them and his readers the most grown-up of situations to face and the hardest of decisions to make.

Ignore the critics online that, inexplicably, fail to see the charm of Tezuka’s artwork; who say it doesn’t look ‘manga’ enough. You should be in awe of his ability to seamlessly mix, with often devastating effect, the cartoon with the almost stomach churningly graphic. Even if the art is not to your immediate taste, you should be in awe of his writing. You should be in awe of his pacing, and his powerfully succinct narrative style. And most of all, you should be in awe of his refusal to compromise his storytelling for what was thought his target demographic could handle. You should be in awe of a man tasked with writing for an audience of teenage boys, and not only managing to never once patronise, but to also weave moral tales that will question and provoke the most adult of minds. You should, in short, be in awe of his genius.

Someone is killing robots. Not just any robots either; apparently someone is hunting down and killing the world’s most powerful and famous robots. And this is a problem for Inspector Gesicht of Europol, not just because he’s been put in charge of tracking down the killer, but because the list of victims so far suggests he might be a target himself.

At first glance this mystery is the heart of Naoki Urasawa’s Pluto – a modern retelling of a popular story arc from manga god Osamu Tezuka’s most famous creation Astro Boy – but in many ways the detective story is just a framework for the author to explore a multitude of themes. Just as Tezuka used Astro Boy to present ideas of difference, prejudice and social exclusion to a young audience, here Urasawa (assisted by Takashi Nagasaki and supervised by Tezuka’s son Macoto) does the same – but with the knowledge that he is talking to an older, more mature audience. The result is something not only a little darker but perhaps subtler – the world Gesicht and his other characters inhabit is less black and white, the lines between robot and human more blurred. At some point in the past robots have attained sentience, and subsequently equality with their human creators, but this is still no utopia – prejudice and discrimination lurk below the surface. Anti robot sentiments are confused further by the fact that many of these sentient machines – including Gesicht himself – are near indistinguishable from humans, while others such as the beloved celebrity Mont Blanc – the killer’s first victim – are almost stereotypically robotic in their appearance. It’s an interesting take on a science fiction meme that has been made commonplace from Blade Runner, A.I. and a hundred novels; that while we see the human-like Gesicht treated with some suspicion, there is a very public, widespread outpouring of grief for the loss of the mechanical looking Mont Blanc. It is almost as though Urasawa is commenting on racial stereotypes and the media, and how often we are more open to accept public figures that fit with our preconceived ideas.

But it’s not just the human’s that are finding this new co-existence difficult, the robots themselves at times seem to be struggling with how they fit into this brave new world. We see Gesicht having to deal with not only the pressures of his own marriage, but also the effects the murders are having on the robot families of the victims. When he goes to have dinner with the gladiatorial celebrity robot Brando and his huge family of children he appears bowled over by their charm and warmth, but his reaction also seems tinged with something that could either be regret or alienation. Similarly, when he meets Atom – the Japanese child-robot that is based upon Astro Boy himself – he seems confused and slightly shocked that that the machine is exhibiting such wide-eyed innocence and childlike fascination for the world around him, especially when Atom himself seems incapable of explaining where these emotions came from. “Well, after pretending all the time,” the boy robot says, “I eventually really got it.” And in many ways this seems to be the core theme of Pluto – that why should robots, created by man to be superior to him in many aspects of form and function, with heightened strength and senses and the ability to edit and share their memories – experience reality on the same level as us? Why should they have to conform to our cultural and societal ideals and practices? With these questions asked Urasawa gives them an even deeper significance, with Gesicht, Atom and the other characters coming to represent our own, very human, everyday concerns about conformity and our roles in society. It’s done with an elegance and subtle sophistication in just these first two volumes that it leaves other works – perhaps most notably Neon Genesis Evangelion – stumbling around in their own philosophical mess, and marks Urasawa as a true master of science fiction writing.

Not that he stops there. The story is told in the shadow of the recently ended 39th Middle East War – a thinly veiled satire on real world conflicts (Urasawa substitutes ‘Robots of Mass Destruction’ for ‘Weapons of Mass Destruction’ as a reason for invasion), that has left those robots that fought in it even more confused about their role and purpose. While their Asimov-like programming is meant to stop them from harming humans, there’s no restrictions on killing other robots, a contradiction that has left the machine veterans even more confused as to whether they are really excepted into human society, and whether to imitate or reject the lifestyles and hypocritical values of their creators. This is highlighted best in the story of North#2, a powerful war-robot that attempts to put his past behind him by becoming a butler for a famous composer whose work he admires – going as far as to always wear a cloak to cover his terrifying, weapon-encrusted form. He yearns to learn from his new master, who at first refuses to accept a killing machine can truly comprehend music, and it’s a story of acceptance, guilt and self-loathing that Urasawa delivers with devastating emotional effect that makes the book essential reading almost on it’s own.

I realise that I’ve not talked much about the art in this review – as fascinated as I have become by the thematic ideas the story flaunts so effortlessly – and this is a little unfair. The books are gorgeous throughout, with Urasawa creating a unique and brave style that combines the realistic with the stylised, 1950s Tezuka view of the future. This is Astro Boy post Bladerunner; never quite dark enough to be cyberpunk or shiny enough to be The Jetsons, but somewhere solid and believable in the middle. Even at times when the classical, toy-like robot designs seem at first to jar against the deeper subject matter you later realise this is all part of Urasawa’s plan to make you confront his philosophical themes head on, and you can’t help but feel that no other artists could have done the narrative justice.

Just recently I gushed enthusiasm over Urasawa’s 20th Century Boys, and I’m conscious that I have just done the same over Pluto. Both, based on these first volumes, are masterpieces – the former for it’s accessibility and effortless, enticing story telling and the later for it’s mature, refreshingly unique philosophical take on a classic science fiction idea. Again I can’t recommend enough reading either, just as I can’t wait to get my hands on the further installments of both. An unmissable experience.

Review copies supplied by Viz Media.

One name has dominated manga over the last few years – in the west at least – Naoki Urasawa. Probably best known for his dark mystery series (and it’s subsequent anime spin-off) Monster and Pluto, his recent re-telling of a story arc from Osamu Tezuka’s Astro Boy, the series that has most recently grabbed not only the attention and awards but also spawned a trilogy of live action movies is the sci-fi and comedy tinged mystery 20th Century Boys. Despite the ferocious buzz around the comic across manga-fandom, I’m slightly embarrassed to say that it was only this month I finally managed to sit down and check it out, courtesy of Viz Media dropping me copies of the first two books to review.

And, in all honesty, I can say that despite all the hype I wasn’t quite prepared for the impact these two books would have on me.

From the very first page, 20th Century Boys is a thoroughly entertaining read. There’s a multitude of reasons for this, but primarily – and I’m thrilled to say this considering some of the anime and manga I’ve been sent to review recently – it’s the story that makes it so engaging. Starting in the summer of 1969 it tells the tale of a group of young boys who build a hideout they name their secret base, in which they and their friends can get together to share manga, stolen porno mags and listen to rock music. Influenced by the manga and anime of the time, they daydream about one day being Gatchaman style super-shonen-heroes, thinking up stories where in the future Japan and the rest of the world is threatened by killer robots, diseases and invading aliens, with only the band of friends able to divert the apocalyptic disasters.

Flash forward to the 1990s, and the boys are in their 30s. Our main protagonist Kenji is running the family convenience store (or combini), his earlier dreams of being a super hero dashed along with his teenage plans to become a rock star, as his main day-to-day concerns are onigiri expiry dates and looking after his missing sister’s baby son. He’s reunited again with his childhood friends when one of the group apparently commits suicide – something that neither Kenji or any of his friends seem convinced of, and a little investigation and some bizarre occurrences combine to bring to light the involvement of a strange new religious cult, and even more shockingly, the revelation that some of the events the boys dreamed up as kids may actually be about to take place.

And that, I’m afraid, is about as much as I can tell you about the plot. Anything more would ruin the reading experience, as 20th Century Boys is the kind of densely packed, multi-layered story where the thrill and pleasure for the reader comes from watching it unfold. Furthermore, it’s testament to Urasawa’s undeniable skill as a master storyteller that for every decade jumping flashback, and every minor character that is introduced, the narrative never once feels hard to follow, each piece of the puzzle falling into place in the most exquisite and satisfying of ways. At times reminiscent of the best of Stephen King’s coming of age novels as well as the generation spanning conspiracies of Alan Moore’s Watchmen, the manga manages to combine enough references to Japanese life and culture while never once becoming unapproachable to the uninitiated western reader – making it a perfect entry point for those new to the art-form, or even comics in general. Again it is the story that is, at all times, paramount here.

As if Urasawa-san’s skills as a writer weren’t mesmerising enough, then it’s almost sickening to take on board that he drew 20th Century Boys as well. Employing a more realistic then normal art-style and a cinematic approach to framing every page is an utter delight to look at. The character designs, while almost mundane at first-glance in their realism, are in truth one of the manga’s strongest assets; watching our hero Kenji transformed from scruffy schoolboy through slacker rocker to down-trodden shop manager is thoroughly convincing, especially perhaps for those of us of a similar age who’s lifes may not have turned out exactly as our childhood dreams had predicted.

It’s here perhaps that the secret of 20th Century Boys’ success truly lies; Urasawa’s enviable talents for depicting believable human expression and writing natural-sounding dialogue combine to create a cast of characters so convincing that following the complex and often fantastic plot is never nothing less than a complete joy, and an experience seldom rivaled in any genre or medium. Based on reading just these first two volumes 20th Century Boys is an unmissable masterpiece that I cannot fail to recommend to anyone, whether a seasoned manga fan or newcomer to the artform, and one that I cannot wait to see through to it’s conclusion.

Even if you’ve never read a single page of manga before, the chances are you’re familiar with Osamu Tezuka – and if the name isn’t familiar, then it’s likely that his most famous creation Astro Boy, is. Even though she’s never, to my knowledge, read a page of the manga herself, my girlfriend’s most prized purchases during last year’s Tokyo shopping exhibitions where the t-shirts featuring the iconic robo-Pinocchio she picked up in Harajuku. But Tezuka – often referred to as the ‘God of Manga’ and the ‘Father of Anime’ – had an impact beyond his cute character designs and children’s adventure stories, with even Astro Boy at times exploring the darker sides and moral ambiguities of human nature, and perhaps his strongest vehicle for this being the character Black Jack.

Written in the 1970s and 80s, the Black Jack stories deal with an enigmatic but mercenary, unlicensed surgeon for hire. Drawing on his own experience training (though never practicing) as a physician, Tezuka combines what appears to be often sound medical details with Jack’s almost super-human surgical skills to create Japan’s most iconic anti-hero. However, it is not Black Jack’s amazing feats of medical prowess that are the stories’ real focus, but more his complex, often self-contradicting, moral standpoints and choices.

I’d first dipped into Black Jack years ago, so I was thrilled when US publisher Vertical sent me a copy of their fifth volume of their complete re-issue of the decade spanning series for review. Fears that entering the series at Volume 5 would leave me lost quickly disappeared on being reminded of the series’ format; these are short, 20 or so page stand-alone tales rather than an ongoing serial, and while there are re-occurring characters and themes it is easily picked up at any point, without any real prior introduction. They follow a fairly standard formula: Jack is hired to tend to a patient that, for whatever reason, requires aid that cannot be found within the normal, legal medical channels. For example, in “Yet False the Days” Jack is approached by a paralysed pop idol’s greedy management to perform plastic surgery on a girl to make her look like the famous star. But as with all the stories there is a twist in the tale, and even when Jack insists instead on curing the idol so she can perform again and the surgery is a near-miraculous success, the end result is ultimately tragedy. Elsewhere Tezuka takes aim at the medical establishment, portraying other surgeons and hospital administrators as bloated, self important buffoons – and this combined with Jack’s own, often mercenary, attitude seems to throw some light on the author’s own views of the world of medicine. Clearly fascinated by the science of surgery, Tezuka seems just as intrigued with the feelings of power and control that wielding this knowledge brings, and here he explores both sides in detail, perhaps also throwing some light on to why he never practiced medicine himself.

While it is hard to deny the concise efficiency of Tezuka’s storytelling, outside Japan some younger critic’s have taken issue with the style of his drawing. Clearly influenced by US artists such as Walt Disney and Grim Natwick, even though his work helped to craft what has become accepted as the modern style, it does at times seem removed from what we now instantly identify as manga. However, to criticise him, as others have, for being ‘old-fashioned’, ‘too American’ or ‘not-Japanese enough’ looking seems not only ridiculous to me, but blatantly inaccurate. Just flicking through the book reveals not only Tezuka’s detailed, graphic depictions of surgery, but also character designs that could be nothing else but Japanese in their origin, with visual elements and archetypes that can still be seen in every newly published manga today. Yes, Tezuka’s style may be different from today’s artists, but to dismiss or dislike it for just these reasons seems both infantile and narrow-minded, and a sad reflection on the tastes and mindsets of the contemporary manga fan that seems to value conformity and the familiar over variety and being challenged. It’s perhaps worth pointing out to these self-proclaimed foreign ‘otaku’ that back in Japan these distinctions are made far less often, and that widening your tastes beyond what you perceive and pigeonhole as ‘the manga style’ may open up some new, rewarding experiences.

But anyway – before I descend into frustrated ranting: this book is an excellent package. Vertical have done yet another fantastic job with the presentation, the quality of the print is excellent, and of particular note is the unique and stylish front cover. The book even includes a 12-page sample excerpt from Tezuka’s Dororo – seen as many as being the predecessor of Black Jack. As mentioned previously the short, episodic, stand-alone nature of the stories within make the book accessible to any reader – whether they are new to Black Jack, Tezuka or even manga itself, and based on this volume I wouldn’t hesitate in recommending grabbing any of the Vertical Black Jack editions you come across. An essential read.