Category Archives: thought exercise

The Emergency Heteronormative Character

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There is an archetype in anime and manga that I’ve begun calling the “Emergency Heteronormative Character.” 

In the beginning, many manga creators do not know where their comics will end up. Rose of Versailles was supposed to focus a lot more on Marie Antoinette than Oscar. Kinnikuman famously began as a superhero parody before it turned into a full-on wrestling manga—and all because its authors, Yudetamago, really got into the latter. A single storyline in Yu-Gi-Oh! about a trading card game permanently altered its entire trajectory. I think the same thing happens with series where character relationships are important.

Some love triangles know exactly who the end girl will be, whereas others might not arrive at an answer immediately (or ever). But I have also seen series where a particular character, usually a minor one, seems to exist just in case, as if above them is a message that reads “Break Glass if Heternormative Romance is Necessary.” 

I have never read Slam Dunk, but I’ve heard about Akagi Haruko: the female love interest of the protagonist, Sakuragi Hanamichi. She is a fairly important character at the start (being the one to spark Hanamichi’s entry into basketball), and she’s even the focus of the anime’s extremely beloved first ending sequence. But over time, she recedes into the distance because the dynamics between the players themselves are what really draw people in. 

The appeal of shounen sports series for shippers plays right into this pattern. Whether it’s Prince of Tennis or Yowamushi Pedal, there often seems to be a girl character who is like an anchor on the port of heteronormativity, allowing a manga creator to double back if need be. Even Saki has some of this energy in the earliest volumes. The character of Koutarou began as the sole male member of the mahjong club, acting as a potential male audience stand-in to witness the girls in their nonchalantly risque glory.

BL and yuri potential often drive a good deal of the relationship interest in series like the ones mentioned. However, the Emergency Heteronormative Character can even exist in series that are pretty heterosexual too. In Rokudo’s Bad Girls, you have Tsuyukusa Mizue, the only non-delinquent girl in the series. She’s meek and cute, and always worried about how the main character Rokudo seems to be turning to the dark side. And while the anime is on an accelerated timeline, the early part of the manga makes it pretty clear that she could have been Rokudo’s “saving grace” if the series had gone a little differently.

Emergency Heteronormative Characters aren’t automatically bland, and they can be fun and charming in their own right. That said, they often feel like the product of an author hedging their bets, and they typically shine less brightly because they are simply not meant to be in the spotlight as much. I also have to wonder if these characters exist on some level for in case a title needs a quick romantic conclusion should things need to wrap up quickly. However, as we further leave the era where nice and neat heterosexual relationships are seen as necessary, maybe the archetype will have to evolve into something else entirely.

My Personal Challenge: Deciding What Language to Work On

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Whether by circumstance or choice, I’ve had the benefit of knowing, learning, and at the very least being exposed to multiple languages. I’m native in one, grew up with a second, and work extensively with a third (Japanese). I love learning about languages. However, as I try to improve my understanding, I keep running into a couple of issues where I feel that I probably know the answers but am afraid to fully open my eyes.

First, what language(s) should I be focusing on? One connects me to my background and culture. Another helps me professionally. And then there are a few others I’ve been exposed to over the years that I’d like to at least get a grasp on.

Second, if I want to get to a point of fluency in a language, what do I need to do? For that matter, what kind of fluency am I looking for?

From my having studied Japanese, I’m aware that there is a point at which a language will just click into place. I have vivid memories of having spent time there after taking classes back home, and one day just being able to understand so much more, as if my brain finally “got it.” So the best solution to start with is probably to stick with one language until it entrenches itself in my mind, because outside of head trauma, you can’t ever fully lose it.

I also know this because my second language is something where I have an intrinsic connection. My parents have spoken it all my life, though I haven’t always reciprocated in kind. I’ve spent much of my life in a situation where I can often understand what is being said to me but can’t always find the words on command, and my reading ability is subpar at best. When it comes to really complex topics or idioms, I am out of my depth. Even so, I can tell that it’s in settled deep in there. My specific dilemma here is whether I should be satisfied with only that much.

So the specific goal depends on the language because I have different degrees of familiarity with each. When it comes to Japanese, I would seek a greater mastery so that I won’t get caught off guard by unusual words or phrases, be they extremely archaic or all too modern. For my parents’ tongue, I’d like both literacy and enough of an expanded vocabulary so as to not sound like a child even well into my adulthood. And as for other options, I’d really just like to be able to read comics in a target language so I can appreciate them more.

The hard pill for me to swallow is that the best thing to do, almost without a doubt, is to concentrate heavily on one so that the neural connections can form. Be as active as possible about it too, consuming all the media I can, and maybe even seek out language partners or take classes. From there, once I feel comfortable with one, I can maybe consider trying another. 

However, there are some barriers, mostly having to do with time and mentality. While I’m very fond of language learning, it’s not my only hobby or even my primary one (see: this anime and manga blog). Also, whenever I stray away from a language, I end up feeling guilty about neglecting it—even if it’s to work on another one! Despite knowing full well that learning new languages is hard, I feel stuck in limbo, worried that I’m simultaneously spending too much and too little time and effort. If I can overcome that block, I can probably make greater strides instead of moving forward bit by bit.

My intent is not to become a polyglot. I don’t have a goal of wowing my friends with all the languages I can possibly speak. If I were to achieve such skill, I’d surely be happy about it, but it’d be just one more tool I could utilize to explore the world and its stories better than ever. Now, if only I could make sense of my jumbled thoughts.

Child Empowerment as Commodity and 1980s American Cartoons

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The 1980s were a pivotal decade in American children’s television, when Ronald Reagan’s administration removed the rules against directly advertising to children. Things like He-Man, My Little Pony, and Thundercats are all a product of this barrier getting knocked down. There was a clear downside to this—it allowed greedy capitalist companies to have their way with young and impressionable minds—but I also distinctly remember loving the cartoons of the 80s (and 90s) because they felt like they spoke to me and my desires.

Compared to the even older cartoons of decades past that I’d see pop up on TV, there was so much more action. Characters from shows like Silverhawks, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Bionic Six just looked downright amazing in the mind’s eye of a young kid. I think what really stood out to me was the degree to which these shows felt like they understood what kids wanted, in contrast to programs that were concerned about what parents would think. Even with the requisite PSAs (e.g. GI Joe’s “Knowing Is Half the Battle”), what made these toy-centric cartoons feel so good was the irresponsibility. They allowed kids like me to live vicariously through them, with only the flimsiest of morals as pretext. Even today, their opening animations ooze such style and splendor that they represent the pinnacle of cool.

Of course, the reality is that what kids want isn’t necessarily what’s good for them, and companies were and are all too eager to exploit them for the sake of a bottom line. Children are not ignorant or imperceptive, but they’re also readily willing to eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Cartoons of the Reagan era definitely swung in that direction, and those who grew up on them and take their visual conventions and tropes for granted might not be aware how much their biases are influenced by this sustained marketing volley on our senses.

At the same time, shit was rad, and I’m glad I saw Rodimus Prime ask the Matrix of Leadership to “light our darkest hour.” How do you give kids that kind of empowerment without taking advantage of the plasticity of their minds?

I use the 80s as the main focus because of that prominent macho aesthetic, but what I’m also thinking about is the way getting attached to a specific era of animation can shape one’s perspective as to what is normal and interesting. Cartoons do not exist in a vacuum apart from the world at large, and both the creators and kids carry values that are often different in some way than their predecessors.

Ironically, diversity and championing civil rights is far more transgressive move than just letting kids imagine they could shoot lasers, but to those who grew up in the shadow of the 80s and 90s, the former can seem too much like the moralizing that made the previous decades’ cartoons feel boring.

The complaint that Disney doesn’t have “true bad guys” anymore also comes to mind. On some level, it makes sense: Evildoers like Jafar, Scar, Maleficent are iconic and bring a bit of an edge to the family-friendly works they come from. However, while these bad guys often possess a visceral darkness about them, the antagonistic forces of current Disney movies tackle more socially profound topics like generational trauma. The former chill the spine, while the latter bludgeon the gut, often feeling far more painful to those of us who can relate to the characters’ situations. But a certain type of person thinks it automatically worse if the villains aren’t, well, villainous. The lack of a clear-cut light vs. dark conflict can be disappointing to those who just want to see a foe vanquished.

I think all this is to say that sometimes it’s not just nostalgia that makes a period of art and entertainment feel special—there are actual differences influenced by the culture of the time and the people who contributed. But just because a period is special doesn’t mean it’s the be-all, end-all. We can find hot in the way 80s cartoons hit the mark aesthetically and inspired kids with that sense of cops-and-robbers awe, while also acknowledging that not everything was perfect. 

Good Anime vs. Bad Direction?

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A thought popped into my head one day: Can I tell if a good anime adaptation was marred by bad direction without knowing actual details about the production? It’s one thing to point at spectacular failures, but what about something that was decent but could have been transcendent? What about if the source material was so strong on its own that not even a mediocre director could remove its shine? Or is it impossible for something to be good, yet suffer from poor direction? 

While I love anime and possess some formal education in related areas, I’m not refined to the point that I can easily make judgment calls about direction quality. Moreover, with anime, there are a lot of people involved—e.g. the actual animators—in a collaborative effort, so it can be difficult to tell where one person’s contributions end and another’s negative impact begins. I’m also generally someone who prefers to point out a work’s strengths over its weaknesses, and this may have left me unable to nitpick to such an exacting degree.

I’m not sure how strongly I desire the ability to be so discerning in the end, but maybe I could develop it. While I’d rather not be an anime snob (feel free to call me out if you think I already am), I’m somewhat wary of giving more credit than is properly due. There have been past cases of me praising something that I thought was a legitimately good work (and still do), only to learn that the person at the helm hindered more than helped. I don’t know if I’m asking too much of myself, but I feel like I have to be aware of my limitations.

Social Connection and Nostalgia for Web 1.0

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I have a somewhat rose-colored view of an internet from long ago, and based on my observations on social media, I’m not alone. Increasingly, I see among those who surfed the superhighway a desire to return to a still-connected but far less prominently “public” presence. There’s no doubt a heavy element of nostalgia, but I also think there’s another major factor: a longing for a time when you could feel comfortable baring your insides, both the beautiful and ugly parts, without risking attack en masse.

The internet has thrived as a way to help people feel less alone without great risk to themselves. Whether it’s a political belief, favorite book, or even a sexual fetish, thinking you’re the only person in the world who’s into something can be an incredibly isolating experience. Are you “normal?” If not, are there at least others who can relate to you?

Now, especially as an entire generation has grown up being encouraged (or even forced) to make their online presence and extension of their offline identity, it’s not surprising that people would become afraid to share themselves. In a recent interview, game creator Sakurai Masahiro (of Smash Bros. and Kirby fame) said something related to this, which was summarized by a translator as follows:

“Sakurai talks about how he feels like today’s culture is too combative & people are quick to tear down things they don’t like in bad faith, and that the people putting things out into the world are vulnerable whereas the critics aren’t; he has little faith that things will change.”

I think it captures the environment well, along with the fear it creates.

Trying to find out if there were others like you carried a risk in the past too, of course. I’m under no illusions that those days weren’t filled with trolls or mean-spirited assholes eager to tear people down, but compared to today, the potential damage to the self feels less severe. Or at least, it would be localized.

There’s an anime called Jormungand about a mercenary team led by an arms dealer. In the final episode [Spoiler Warning], the main characters essentially cripple the ability to wage war from the other side of the world, though more regional conflicts are still very possible. In other words, while they can never truly stop war, they at least wanted to slow its spread. I think the desire to return to an era of web rings, bulletin boards, and extremely unpolished personal sites comes from a similar sentiment. Call it harm reduction, perhaps.

The Roles of “Characters” in Mecha Anime

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Sometimes, you’ll see a wild claim about mecha anime, like “Gurren-Lagann was the first giant robot series to be about characters instead of the robots,” and it inevitably results in a backlash—in this case, the counterargument that all giant robot shows are about characters. Whether the initial statement is made in jest or as a genuinely ignorant take by someone with only surface-level knowledge of mecha, it reflects certain assumptions about what the genre is like.

I got to thinking about the notion that giant robot anime are about characters because it’s both true and an oversimplification. Moreover, the extent to which the giant robots truly “matter,” as in they’re inexorable from the world being portrayed and can’t be substituted with some other form of weaponry, varies tremendously. But regardless of the true “necessity” of either characters or robots, I feel there is more to it than just one side mattering more than the other. Then a thought occurred to me, and I have a kind of nascent “universal theory of giant robot anime”:

Giant robot anime are about characters, but more specifically, the main character reflects some vital or fundamental aspect of the world and story around them. The giant robot, in turn, is reflective of the connection between the hero and that aspect.

If it seems nebulous, that’s because it is. I’m thinking less about trying to justify every mecha anime and more about how the giant robots end up being the avatar through which so many of these protagonists interact with their environment and their histories, and thus reveal more about the anime themselves. There’s also no denying the close ties between giant robots and merchandising, but this also ebbs and flows over the decades.

So let’s start with some of the big ones. 

Tetsujin 28 is about Shoutarou trying to make a difference in a post-WWII environment by being a boy detective who fights crime. Tetsujin 28 the robot was created to fight the Allies, but is now being used for an alternate purpose: as a guardian of peace instead of a weapon of war. 

Mazinger Z draws a direct lineage to this sort of thinking. While the power fantasy and toyetic appeal of the robot itself is undeniable, Kouji is presented with a question about human potential from the very beginning: If you had great power, would you be a god or a devil? The robot Mazinger Z is Kouji’s way of making a difference, and he chooses to use it as a protective guardian.

Mobile Suit Gundam, the first “real robot” anime that emphasized the robots as weapons of war over superhero-like entities, is about its hero Amuro’s repeated exposure to the trauma of war. It’s through the Gundam that he experiences physical and emotional scars alike, and the very fact that his piloting experience molds him into a capable soldier also contributes to the overall “horror of war” message that girders Gundam and its many sequels.

Superdimensional Fortress Macross has three main components: romance, music, and robot battles. Here, the titular robot is literally a flying city traveling through space, and it functions as both an urban cosmopolitan center and a massive superweapon. In other words, it is the very space in which all three pieces of Macross take place.

Neon Genesis Evangelion centers around Shinji and his fear of human connection, be it with his family, his peers, his friends, or anyone else. It is the anime of extreme introspection. Not only is the EVA-01 the means by which he tries (and fails) to find self-worth, but the EVA itself is revealed to house the soul of his dead mother. He is contained in a womb-like structure inside of his giant mom.

Tengen Toppa Gurren-Lagann is about Simon and the limitless potential of humanity to overcome all obstacles slowly but surely—and ultimately whether there should be limits on that power. Gurren-Lagann manifests this through numerous transformations fueled by human spirit that bring on exponential power growth.

The above examples are all heavy hitters, but what I also want to emphasize is that this applies to “lesser” titles as well.

Brave Police J-Decker is maybe the most on-the-nose example of the relationship between a boy and his giant robot, as the story is about how Yuuta’s friendship with the giant police robot Deckard is what teaches the latter to develop true emotions and a proper sense of justice and humanity. 

Shinkon Gattai Godannar is about the relationship between Gou and Anna as husband and wife and how their love affects both their personal and professional lives as co-pilots. Godannar Twin Drive is literally a combination of both robots.

Robotics;Notes focuses on Kaito and his relationship with Akiho’s giant robot club, and the blurring of augmented reality with actual reality. The creation of the Guntsuku-1 is basically an untenable goal that, through the events of the series, becomes effectively “real” through how Kaito and Akiho view and utilize it.

Trider G7 is about Watta, who’s both a little kid and the CEO of his own company, utilizing both the image of Japanese corporate culture of the early 1980s and the classic child desire of wanting to do what the adults do. The Trider G7 robot literally flies out of a playground, and has tons of cool and wacky weapons, but the fact that it’s Watta’s robot and the main way he gets his job done means it’s the conduit through which that “grown-up” fantasy takes place. 

Shinkansen Henkei Robo Shinkalion the Animation is literally a commercial for bullet train toys that are, in turn, advertising for the Shinkansen trains in Japan. Its main character, Hayato, is basically a Shinkansen fanatic who sees them as not only the coolest things ever but as reflecting a philosophy of unwavering service to the people of Japan. The Shinkalion robots, by extension, portray a more action-packed version of this concept.

Giant robot anime embody many values, from crass commercialism to dreams of being brave and strong, from anti-war sentiments to deep looks inward at the psychological scars of society. The mecha themselves are often not “characters” in and of themselves (with a number of notable exceptions), but they are symbolic of how the protagonists of these stories relate to what they experience. The hurdle for those who think that these anime are “more about robots” is that this particular way of communicating the characters’ stories requires an acceptance of giant robots as a storytelling device.

Trigun Stampede, Cowboy Bebop, and Scrapbook Worlds

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When Studio Orange announced that they were making Trigun Stampede, I was pleasantly surprised. Trigun is a title that a lot of anime and manga fans around the turn of the 21st century cut their teeth on—I myself remember seeing it thanks to my school’s anime club. However, aside from a singular film in the form of 2010’s Trigun: Badlands Rumble, it hasn’t gotten much love, and it also isn’t as enduring in the general fandom consciousness as Cowboy Bebop. To be fair to both, they’re only vaguely similar, but they did come out around the same time and were anime convention staples together for years.

But here was a new Trigun TV series, and what’s more, it was clear that Trigun Stampede was going for an updated aesthetic. Anyone who’s familiar with the manga or anime remembers the iconic look of hero Vash the Stampede in his signature red trench coat and ultra-spiky hair—and both have been significantly altered for this remake. As I watched it, one thing became clear: While a lot of elements are similar to the 1990s anime, the story had been rearranged in noticeable ways. Where the previous iteration has a 50/50 balance of slapstick comedy via larger-than-life personalities and twist-filled science-fiction drama, Stampede is a lot more focused on telling a serious story. That said, I didn’t mind the changes, and was able to take all the changes in stride and appreciate them on their own terms. 

But as I was going over how I feel about Stampede, a thought occurred to me. Why is it that I was able to easily accept a different Trigun, yet the very idea of a new anime remake of Cowboy Bebop feels wrong? I’m not even someone who reveres Cowboy Bebop as a sacred cow, though I think it’s excellent in many ways. (I know there’s the live-action Cowboy Bebop, but I consider adaptations like that their own separate topic regardless of quality, so I‘m setting that aside.)

What I think the difference comes down to is just the way each series generally approaches storytelling. Cowboy Bebop is like a finely tuned machine, intricate and delicately balanced to give a very specific experience. Removing even one or two gears can throw the entire thing off, and overhauling it entirely feels pointless. Trigun, on the other hand, comes across as more of a scrapbook. Narratives can still be formed, but the strengths of the individual elements are more important, and they can be rearranged in different ways.

This brings to mind an old favorite topic of mine: the contrast between “character” and “kyara” as written about by manga scholar Ito Go. Essentially, character is how a figure exists within their greater story, whereas kyara is how much of their identity can be maintained if divorced from their original context. I think neither Cowboy Bebop nor Trigun are severely lacking in either category, but the former has a relatively stronger  emphasis on character, while the latter focuses more on kyara. 

It’s why Trigun Stampede can be this more somber experience wholly lacking in things like a wacky black cat who makes cameos and meows a lot, yet still identifiably be Trigun. In fact, this new series can often feel like Trigun leaning in the direction of Cowboy Bebop without thoughtlessly aping it. So even though there’s a sequel to Stampede on the way that will actually incorporate more of the 1990s Trigun look, the new groundwork laid out makes me look forward to seeing both how similar and how different things get. And despite the fact that the franchise has its origins in the 1990s, I can’t help but wonder if the pacifist nature of Vash might actually resonate harder among fans today.

Ironmouse, Opera, and a Kung Fu Analogy

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Ironmouse, a pink-haired Virtual Youtuber, holding a slipper in her left hand

Sometimes, the perfect analogy to explain something can come from an unexpected place. For me, I recently found a way to organize some thoughts I’ve been having about martial arts, and it’s all thanks to VTuber mega star Ironmouse. 

As I peer more into the world of kung fu and the like, I’m frequently encountering the idea that many martial arts are not built around merely being a catalog of techniques one can add to their arsenal. Rather, they’re often systems of efficient power generation for particular circumstances, which then form the foundation for executing techniques. 

Something like western boxing has been proven effective for fighting, and it’s a system where specific implementation of techniques can be made functional by anyone if initially taught correctly. From what I understand, a less experienced person can learn to throw a 100% proper and effective punch even if it might not be as good as a veteran boxer’s. In contrast, many techniques across various kung fu disciplines will be largely ineffective without having trained extensively in how a style is meant to generate power and having passed a certain point in which your body has adapted to this counterintuitive movement.

It’s a difference that can be hard for people to grasp, myself included. I’m not a fighter or a martial artist, so it’s not something I can intuitively understand. But this is where Ironmouse comes in.

One of the many impressive things that Ironmouse is known for is that she actually has training in operatic singing. However, her opera voice is not her “normal” singing voice. During her 2023 birthday concert (see below), she sang well but without going into opera mode, and the difference is noticeable. In other words, a person can’t just improve their singing until it reaches “opera level”—it requires dedicated training in a particular way of producing sound. 

While not the only VTuber to have studied opera (Tokino Sora from Hololive and Banzoin Hakka from Holostars EN), Ironmouse is probably the most powerful example of how specific the training can be. This is because singing opera style can literally cause her physical pain due to chronic health issues, so she doesn’t often perform that way. When she does, though, Ironmouse sounds incredible. 

The similarities to different types of martial arts also extends to the topic of subjectivity. Opera may require a certain type of training to make a certain type of sound, but is it inherently better than other forms of singing? Not necessarily. It’s all down to personal wants, needs, and preferences, as well as what you aim to do with it. Is it the right move to train for years in a specific way of generating power found in certain martial arts, or to work from what one’s body can already do?

So thanks, Ironmouse. I don’t know if it makes sense to everyone, but your singing has helped me in a most unexpected way.

Pallet Cleanser: The End of Ash Ketchum as Pokemon Protagonist

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This past week marked one of anime’s biggest departures ever, as Ash Ketchum—aka Satoshi—has ended his 26-year tenure as the main hero of Pokemon. It’s amazing to think about how the character has been such an enduring presence in the lives of millions of people for over two decades, all without being wholly remade and revised. Other heroes in other franchises might arguably have greater legacies, but the fact that it was consistently the same Ash week in and week out makes for one fascinating and continuous chain of history.

It’s been many, many years since I was actively part of the Pokemon fandom. I naturally didn’t know about it when it first came out in Japan, but for all practical purposes I was there from the beginning. I remember getting a little pamphlet about Pokemon in an issue of Nintendo Power, and as I anticipated its arrival, I managed to even catch the sneak peek “Battle Aboard the St. Anne” episode that aired the week before the first episode aired in the US. For maybe five or more years, I would record every episode on VHS, and the times I had to program the VCR, I tried to time breaks in the recording to preserve space so I could fit more on each tape. I’ve long since stopped doing that, or watch Pokemon on a regular basis, but I can never forget those early days.

Ash was never my favorite Pokemon character, and for the fellow fans I interacted with online, it was largely the same. The reason: a lot of the people I talked to I met either through the competitive scene (years before the founding of Smogon) or via a Team Rocket messageboard. In the former case, people were not fans of Ash’s nonsensical battles or inability to understand the type chart despite his successes. In the latter, it’s because a site dedicated to Team Rocket would naturally run ever-so-slightly edgy and prefer older characters. For me, it’s just because he was a pretty decent but generic kids’ anime protagonist—a plain rice ball (or donut, as it were) in a world of more compelling stories. 

But there‘s something special about being that hero for so many people for so long. And while many of his accomplishments were often tied to meta events (e.g. Gary Oak/Shigeru’s Japanese voice actor leaving the show is why they ended up having their big 6v6 clash in the Johto Pokemon League), the sheer amount of things Ash managed to achieve is impressive. A character who could have gone on forever unchanging still leaves behind one hell of a CV. 

A big factor in why there was a sense of progress with Ash was because of the way he would go from one region to the next in accordance with game sequels. While the basic formula of “meet new friends, have adventures, get gym badges” was always present, he never stayed in the same area for long, and he always met new people. And while fans would often remark on the way his skill and knowledge would seemingly go backwards every time he started a new path to a Pokemon League, it’s clear that his inability to retain knowledge is not necessarily a matter of poor character writing or insufficient lore consistency and more a way to keep him level with the new fans who still come to the series even now. Ash is as much a vessel as he is a protagonist, and he could never be a vessel for everyone at the same time.

One thing I always found funny is the fact that some of Ash’s greatest wins and titles came about in “filler arcs,” the seasons that took place between main-game storylines. This is why he’s the Orange League champion, the Frontier Champion, and most recently the winner of the Masters Eight tournament (solidifying him as the strongest trainer in the world). He also won the Galar Pokemon League, but in hindsight, it’s clearly because they knew they were about to start winding down Ash’s story and they wanted to show much he had grown. I remember thinking, all the way back in the late 90s, about how a main-line gold medal would likely someday be the sign that Pokemon was going to conclude. While the anime will continue with new leads, it really is the end of an era. 

Now the perennial 10-year-old gets to go off and do things unseen, and it makes me wonder if we’ll ever see him again. Might Ash make cameo appearances down the road, and will he look different or even possibly…older? It’s a new and unknown world.

Thoughts I Have After Watching “Raven of the Inner Palace”

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Raven of the Inner Palace is an intriguing fantasy anime with shades of one of my favorite shows ever, Twelve Kingdoms, but mixed with the vibes of a series like Natsume’s Book of Friends or Mushi-shi. The main heroine, a girl known as the Raven Consort, works in the inner environment of a great palace, using her supernatural abilities to solve mysteries like an occult detective. Its combination of elements and its overall compelling nature make me think about various assorted aspects of the series, each of which I want to briefly expand upon. There’s no real organization to these thoughts. 

Chinese Fantasy vs. European Fantasy

The world of Raven of the Inner Palace is not actually China, but the series takes a lot from Chinese culture and mythology. It’s certainly not alone in this regard (Twelve Kingdoms also falls in this category), but it stands out in my mind because of how much “Ancient China” is an aesthetic (especially in fiction coming out of Asia in general), and how much it parallels/contrasts with the default European look that typifies fantasy series of a certain kind. “China-esque” is a whole artistic motif that is less prominent in the West, but the fact that the Chinese Wuxia BL novels have been such a hit makes me wonder if Raven of the Inner Palace (itself originally a light novel series) might also get increasingly popular.

Girls Often Make for Better Audience Stand-In Characters

In terms of being vehicles for wish fulfillment, Raven of the Inner Palace isn’t an exception. It’s primarily geared towards female readers, with the heroine Liu Shouxue (or Ryuu Juusetsu, depending on if you prefer Chinese or Japanese pronunciation) being a cool and powerful sorcerer who gets involved both professionally and emotionally with a kind and handsome emperor. But even knowing this, Shouxue comes across as a well-conceived and well-written character who is actually enjoyable to witness. 

I think one of the big differences is that the male counterparts in series geared towards guys tend to be either more insufferable or carry qualities that just make them less appealing overall. I can see why the emperor or anyone else would fall for Shouxue, and it helps render her as an individual who can carry her own weight in the narrative. On the other hand, so many light novel protagonists seem to just kind of be there, with a handful of quirks cobbled together into a makeshift personality.

Cool Eunuchs???

In Chinese culture and entertainment, eunuchs are often not portrayed in a favorable light. The very reason Chinese emperors used eunuchs is because their inability to procreate supposedly meant that they could care for the concubines without surreptitiously siring children with them, but they also became major parts of inner-palace politics as a result. Thus, eunuchs are traditionally portrayed as weirdly effeminate and conniving schemers who also smell.

However, Raven of the Inner Palace, eunuchs are some of the most awesome characters around. Unpleasant emasculation is interpreted as bishounen coolness, and I can’t help but think about whether this is the product of Chinese-inspired fantasy being processed through anime and manga aesthetic.

The Last Thing: Chekhov’s Chicken

There’s a chubby bird that lives with Shouxue that is mainly comic relief, but I had a feeling from the start that it’s important in some way. I call it “Chekhov’s Chiken,” and I just wanted to mention this nickname so that others use it as well.