No, I haven’t completely forgotten about this site – I’ve just been busy elsewhere. For a start, Anime News Network have just published my review of new Madhouse movie Redline. I suggest you get over there and check it out – I wasn’t exaggerating when I said it is one of the most exhilarating and exciting anime works I’ve seen in a very long time. As of writing Redline hasn’t had a public screening in Japan as far as I know, so I was very lucky to catch it in London at the beginning of the month. However a new teaser trailer dropped today, promising it would be out in ‘Fall 2010′. But out where? Interestingly an identical trailer was put out, with the same release date but in French. Is this a hint at a simultaneous worldwide release?

For even more on Redline, check out this weeks ANNcast, where you can also hear me chatting away about the state and history of anime fandom here and the UK, as well as my experiences using Twitter. I must say a huge thanks to Zac and Justin for having me on – it was a blast – as well as to everyone that sent in questions.

Also a blast was the Anime 3000 podcast recorded earlier in the month that focused on one of my biggest obsessions: Mamoru Oshii. Not only great fun but highly informative for me, as I was alongside two great Oshii experts and good friends of mine; Brian Ruh (author of the fantastic book Stray Dog of Anime: The Films of Mamoru Oshii) and Fernando Ramos (Japan based operative that wrote the review of Oshii’s Assault Girls for this site last year). It’s another great and essential listen, essential whether you’re a die-hard fan or just discovering the great man’s works for the first time.

Links:

• ANN Redline Review
• ANNcast – Manic Maughan-day
• Anime 3000 Panel – S03E04 – The Wonderful World of Mamoru Oshii

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.

This year I was honoured to be asked to contribute to the Anime News Network guide to this season’s new TV shows. Well, I say honoured – it’s going to be quite a bit of work, and will involves me watching a lot of shows that I’d usually avoid like the plague. But hey, that’s what being a critic is all about – no one ever said it would be fun or easy.

I should be posting something up just about everyday, usually within 24 hours of the shows first airing in Japan, so remember to keep checking the link below on a regular basis – as well as what the other critics have got to say.

• Anime News Network: Spring 2010 Anime Preview Guide

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.

A few days ago Scott Spaziani kindly invited me on to the first episode of his Otaku in Review podcast to discuss the best, worst and most overlooked anime shows of 2009 – something I’m really grateful to him for, not just because it was a lot of fun but because it also got me out of having to write one of those ‘review of the year’ posts. Yeah, I know. I’m a lazy bastard.

Also on the show was my good mate and occasional sparring partner Jon Ingoglia of Janaiblog and Chuck Gaffney of Chuck’s Anime Shrine. So if you want to hear what (a pretty hungover) me and the other guys picked as our high and low-lights of 2009 hit the link below. Oh, and Happy New Year.

• Listen to Otaku in Review Podcast: 2009 Year in Review

Fernando Ramos is Editor-in-Chief of Anime3000.com. Hailing from beautiful San Diego, California, his incurable addiction to cartoons has led him to his current residence of Saitama, Japan, where staying up late winter nights editing articles only reminds him that SD would never get this cold. An avid photography and video fan, he also produces occasional videos and he also writes the photography/rant column Japan Jumble for the site. Find him as Saitamarama on Flickr and HelloNavi on Twitter.

Anticipation for Assault Girls has been mixed, to say the least. While it has Mamoru Oshii on the marquee line and implications of being a follow-up to 2001’s brain-teaser Avalon, most fans (like myself) were skeptical about just how utterly mainstream everything looked. Dune “inspired” sandworms and gals with fetish-tastic outfits packing heavy firepower to blow them up are fun and all, but it just lacks the depth and psychology by way of sociopolitics that drenches Oshii’s work and makes it stand out from the glut of countless Japanese-girls-with-guns pieces. It didn’t help matters that the previous two shorts that form the basis of Assault Girls were little more than flashy (and hilarious) action set-pieces with, you guessed it, hot girls.

However, the aforementioned shorts were virtually devoid of any context. We barely knew who our characters were or what they were after besides one last bite of KFC. It was boom-boom-bang-bang night after day and roll credits. This left Oshii open to take the characters in virtually any direction he so wished; and boy did he ever.

Simply put, he shoehorns all the chaos of the shorts into the timeline of his previous live-action film, Avalon. A lengthy voice-over prologue explains (in many big words) to us in no uncertain terms what that goulash was all about: capitalism had reached it’s brink due to our technological advances and society has been pushed to its logical limit. Now we are in the age of Pax Technologica: in short, a world-wide Neo-Communism. Having settled fanboy arguments over just what parts of Avalon actually did happen, we find that the Avalon game has also gotten itself some upgrades since the days of Polish MMORPGers, now seeming to run on Windows Vista instead of Commie-DOS.

Also of note is that, where Avalon was constantly jumping between and blurring the line between the real world and the online one, here we are firmly in the virtual. Outside of a few select throwaway lines and a single scene lasting less than a minute, there is little suggestion of there being a world outside the game. When Avalon was first released in 2001, World of Warcraft was in its infancy, Google was just a search engine and Wikipedia had just begun to be noticed. Humanity was still able to exist disconnected. Things have changed. “We are wired and there’s no getting out now,” is what Oshii seems to be saying. Furthermore, instead of the overexposed yellow slosh over everything in the previous film, Assault Girls opts to merely mute all but the loudest colors if to acknowledge that that the binary may well be just as just tangible as the physical.

Similarly, the tone of the film is much more colorful than the somber Avalon, at times having more in common with Takashi Miike or Quentin Tarantino than with the man who brought us Ghost in the Shell. Characters are introduced with campy still-frame title cards and the furious fun of the action screams for a wild saxophone score instead of the Kenji Kawai mood-synth that does. As icing on the cake, the film is separated into pretentiously titled chapters, Kill Bill-style.

In fact, despite writing the script himself in lieu of his frequent collaborator Kazunori Ito, this is probably Oshii’s least “Oshii” work since Beautiful Dreamer. Basset hounds are nowhere in sight (we do get dogs, but more on that later), the fisheye lenses are put in storage and, prologue notwithstanding, the movie is, much like the trailer promised, mostly concerned with hot chicks blowing shit up real good, visually if not thematically. The three leads jump, run and gun with beauty and grace. While Meisa Kuroki makes for a foxy heroine in her skin-tight rear-accentuating battle gear, it is Babel beauty Rinko Kikuchi as the cute mute mage Lucifer who steals the show for this reviewer. She gets no dialogue beyond a few dubbed-over crow calls (don’t ask), her Harajuku-influenced attire and playful ethereal dancing had my and my equally silent fellow theatre-goers’ full attention.

Yet beyond the absurdity lies a subversive shadow. Oshii has never been beyond playing with the audience. This is the man who threw Hitler and Christ into Urusei Yatsura for crying out loud. The most noticeable of these subversions lies with the fact that we have an all-Japanese cast speaking English. It is well-written modern English peppered with slang, but the performances are stilted and frequently garbled by a Sky Crawlers-esque static filter. However, unlike that film, it is not a mere atmospheric flourish. Here, it is made apparent that this is a rule imposed by the game: only English is permitted with “local languages” being verboten.

It doesn’t take a political science major to see the subtext of political subjugation via linguistics. Sealing the deal is the abundance of Japanese symbology in the landscape of Avalon(f): a statue of Ninomiya Sontoku (a fixture at Japanese schools but historically noteworthy for his economic and humanistic philosophies) and, instead of the infamous basset hound, a shiba inu, one of the domestic breeds of Japan, sniffing around at it. Also, randomly, a character takes out an antagonist in a direct visual quote of General Nguyen Ngoc Loan Executing a Viet Cong Prisoner in Saigon. It’s not subtle symbolism or commentary, but it stands out in the parade of explosions and live-action fanservice. It’s Oshii throwing yet another middle finger to the Establishment, much like the undertones of cultural warfare in the Patlabor movies.

This is all well and good, but the film does have infuriating aspects that keep it from being an instant classic. Like Oshii’s earlier live-action work in the Keroberos Panzer Corps universe, it feels more like a salad bowl of ideas than an actual good movie in its own right. The lack of actors and no major sets adds to the feeling that this was just a side project Oshii wanted to bang out in a few months than his next opus. Perhaps the most infuriating thing is the absence of an ending. This is not an exaggeration. We tune into this world for 80-some minutes and then, just when things are looking to really get heated up, we’re thrown into the credits. As the ending theme by otaku favorite KOTOKO starts cranking up and the audience around me starts getting cranky, we are reminded of a possible rationale:

“GENEON UNIVERSAL PRESENTS: A FILM BY MAMORU OSHII”

Figures.

The name Natsuhiko Kyogoku is probably unfamiliar to most anime fans, but the novelist has already had one of his works adapted – Madhouse’s 2008 series Mōryō no Hako – with a second, Loups-Garous, being adapted into a movie by Production IG and due for release in 2010. An expert in Japanese folklore tales and yōkai, the supernatural creatures that inhabit them, Kyogoku-san is best known in Japan for his award winning mystery novels. Unfamiliar with his work myself until now, I was intrigued when US publisher Vertical Inc sent me a review copy of his debut novel – and the first to be translated into English – The Summer of The Ubume.

Ubume is the first in his long running series of novels about Akihiko ‘Kyōgokudō’ Chuzenji, a bookshop owner and yōkai exorcist, and a character seemingly based in part on Kyogoku himself. However, reading Ubume for the first time it never feels like Kyogoku ever envisioned Kyōgokudō as the main protagonist, or perhaps never foresaw a series when writing it. The story is instead told, in first person, through the eyes of Sekiguchi, a hack journalist who comes to his old friend Kyogoku for advice on a story he is working on. It’s a bizzare and horrific tale of a local medical clinic run by the Kuonji family, and of missing children, a doctor that has apparently vanished into thin air and a woman that has been pregnant for over 20 months. It is Sekiguchi that investigates the mystery, and until the novel’s chilling climax Kyōgokudō plays little role beyond discussing the case and the alleged involvement of a yōkai known as a ubume with his friend. It’s here that we see how Kyōgokudō becomes an avatar in the book’s world for the author – despite their expert knowledge on the subject, both openly state that they do not believe in the existence of yōkai, instead seeing them as a metaphorical manifestation of societies desires, values and fears.

And it’s here that Ubume’s main themes come to the surface. This theory of folklore seems almost like common sense now, but in Japan in 1951 – when the novel is set – this would have been almost revolutionary thinking to the average citizen. In many ways Ubume is about Japan in the grip of post-war identity crisis, as it attempts to forcefully separate from it’s feudal, Imperial past and embrace a more western form of democracy and modernity. It is world full of tabloid newspapers and trashy magazines, screaming lurid tales of demonic women and yōkai possession, while elsewhere characters embrace medicine and quest for scientific discovery. Memories of war linger in the background at all times, while individuals talk of their struggle to come to terms with realising what they fought for was wrong. It’s here that Ubume’s yōkai metaphor comes to the fore, as Kyōgokudō repeats his mantra ‘there is nothing strange’, and we realise that we are watching a Japan that is undergoing a subtle yet monumental shift in it’s psychological, philosophical and intellectual make up. Whether an exploration of this time was Kyogoku’s original intent, or whether it just provided a convenient setting to tell his stories and illustrate his yōkai theories is never made clear. Either way it’s inconsequential; as readers we are given a valuable and fascinating insight and snapshot of a period in Japan’s social history that makes the book a fascinating read on it’s own.

It also, paradoxically, leads me to my single, very minor note of concern about Ubume. Much of this exposition is presented in the form of lengthy, deep discussion between Kyōgokudō and Sekiguchi – and while I found it a fascinating read others may find it a little impenetrable at first, especially as it begins in the first dozen pages of the book. For the first half of the book the plot moves very slowly as a result, but as a fan of this typically Japanese style of philosophical musing – and the works of anime filmmakers like Mamoru Oshii – I found it immensely enjoyable. And in the end, as with all intelligent literature, its worth putting in the attention it demands, as watching the mystery unravel and reach it’s startling, dark climax is another joy altogether. The Summer of the Ubume is yet more proof, if it was needed, that Vertical’s eye for spotting the more unusual and captivating work that Japan has to offer makes it a publishing force not to be ignored. Here’s hoping that Ubume is enough of a success to allow them to bring us more of Kyogoku’s novels. I know I can’t wait to read more.