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The Question of Strength—Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba -Infinity Castle- Part 1

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It is a hell of a move to conclude Demon Slayer, one of the biggest anime and manga of the past 10 years, with a trilogy of movies. I have to assume that putting it in theaters is a way to both create hype and make lots of money in the process, and dang it, it’s working. Not only is Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba –Infinity Castle- Part 1 an overall compelling watch, but it’s apparently the biggest box office weekend in the US for an anime film since Pokémon: The First Movie. 

Despite being the finale, the premise of the Infinity Castle movies is a simple one: After a costly confrontation against Kibutsuji Muzan, protagonist Kamada Tanjiro and the rest of the Demon Slayer Corps seemingly have the villain cornered. However, the heroes suddenly find themselves teleported into the heart of enemy territory. Here in the infinitely expanding castle that Muzan calls his home base, they must face his strongest lieutenants while dealing with a space that defies logic and reason. If they don’t take out the demons here, all will be lost.

The setting is pretty much perfect for a shounen battle anime: an array of elaborate and intense fight scenes that also tell interesting stories about the characters involved. Some clashes are culminations of previous storylines, others reveal previously unknown sides of characters, and everything remains pleasantly hard to predict. It’s a little bit Ninja Scroll and a little bit Girls und Panzer films in terms of never letting up on the tension, with the occasional requisite backstory flashback being the main way to calm things down.

But while Infinity Castle Part 1 is pretty much all “fight, fight, fight,” I think it still portrays compelling and often tragic dramas involving both the beauty and ugliness of humanity in a satisfying manner. Through it all, the film emphasizes ideas that have been core to Demon Slayer: Mutual cooperation can overcome obstacles, compassion is a strength, and humanity is built on helping the weak and paying it forward to the next generation. 

One issue with this movie is that while it has not yet been adapted for TV episodes, it still feels like a series of episodes or chapters stitched together. There was little attempt to structure it as a feature-length film, especially when it comes to the positioning of flashbacks (of which there are many). Moreover, Part 1 is over two and a half hours long, and while I enjoyed every minute, it did feel a little bloated and awkwardly paced at times.

Every battle in the movie are amazing, but I do want to give particular attention to the main fight of this first movie, so there will be SPOILERS AHEAD.

As Tanjiro and the others try to make their way through, he and Giyu the Water Hashira are attacked by Akaza, Muzan’s third strongest minion, and the one with whom Tanjiro has the most history. It was Akaza who killed a valiant Rengoku Kyojuro during the Mugen Train arc, and when they last met, Tanjiro was far outclassed by the demon and his hand-to-hand fighting skills. However, Tanjiro also left a searing impression in Akaza’s mind, calling him a coward for fleeing at dawn when Demon Slayers have to fight demons in the dark of night all the time. 

In this violent reunion, Tanjiro manages to accomplish what he couldn’t before when he slices through Akaza’s body. While this is only a temporary setback for the demon, it’s the first sign that Tanjiro has grown as a warrior. Unfortunately, Akaza quickly adapts to both Tanjiro and Giyu, and it isn’t until Tanjiro manages to piece together various thoughts and memories related to Akaza, the nature of battle and conflict, and his own childhood with his father that he manages to tap into a higher plane of martial expression (the “transparent world,” where killing intent is absent and only movement remains) that he deals a catastrophic blow to his opponent.

While Akaza somehow survives and even starts to regenerate from the brink of demise, the fact that Tanjiro surpassed him in battle, if only for an instant, helps jog Akaza’s faded memories. Remembering his turbulent past life as a child thief trying to get medicine for his gravely ill father, and the second chance he received from a martial artist and daughter before Akaza’s happiness was ripped from him by a petty local clan, Akaza realizes that Tanjiro is exactly the kind of person he wanted to be. The bloody pursuit of strength that has defined him as a demon is revealed to be a corruption of his own desire to live honorably and protect his loved ones. Akaza willingly defeats himself (literally), and visions of his departed fiancee, adoptive father, and birth father help him to shake off Muzan’s control and pass on for good. 

I am utterly impressed by the way this fight plays out. It just encapsulates so much of what makes Demon Slayer a great series, especially the way Tanjiro’s heart breaks through even the toughest obstacles, including the very demons he fights. Akaza is shown to be a human who struggled with the unfairness of the world that punishes the poor for merely existing, and that much of the trauma he suffered came from human hands. Yet, he also recalls a lesson from his old life that it’s never too late to start over, and this puts him on the path to relinquishing his demonhood, even at the cost of his life.

END OF SPOILERS

As someone who was there in the theater to watch Mewtwo Strikes Back back in 1999 and remember the buzz surrounding it, this record-breaking achievement says a lot about how far anime has come. This is maybe the biggest sign that anime has truly, truly arrived on American shores, and the long-time fan in me rejoices in this development. And given what a great watch Infinity Castle Part 1 is, I wouldn’t be surprised if fans are going to watch it multiple times. 

Now it’s time to see how the next film plays out. 

The Dawn of the Sports Boys: Captain Tsubasa

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Tsubasa, the spiky-haired hero of Captain Tsubasa, delivering a powerful midair kick to a soccer ball that looks more like he's launching a laser beam from his foot.

As an anime and manga fan, I enjoy checking out the big fan favorites of yesteryear. It helps broaden my perspective on these artforms, and gives me an opportunity to form my own opinions on a work and not rely solely on the views of others. And who knows—maybe I’ll get a new favorite. In this spirit, I recently familiarized myself with a manga that is not only beloved worldwide for its portrayal of soccer but also the father of the modern shounen “team sports boys” format. Before Blue Lock, Yowamushi Pedal, Haikyu!, Prince of Tennis, and Slam Dunk, there was 1981’s Captain Tsubasa by Takahashi Yoichi.

Regarding reading older major titles, Shounen Jump has been a consistent resource of works for me to tap, such as Saint Seiya and Hunter x Hunter. But while these titles are huge in their own right, Captain Tsubasa’s influence is really something special.

In Japan, Captain Tsubasa helped propel the popularity of soccer nationwide, even being published in a time when “World Cup” wasn’t even a commonly known phrase. Abroad, it gained popularity anywhere soccer was. On my most recent trip to Japan, I watched an episode of Why Did You Come to Japan?, a well-known program that interviews foreigners who are in Japan. This particular episode followed a German fan who made a pilgrimage just out of love for the series, during which he got to visit the real inspiration for the school in the series, among other things. There’s also a famous story about the occupation of Iraq by the US military, where water trucks were covered with images from Captain Tsubasa to show that they were friendly vehicles.

Creating love for soccer at home and garnering praise internationally for its portrayal of the sport are parts of the legacy of Captain Tsubasa. But it was also important in another area that has become a prominent part of anime and manga culture: doujinshi. In my review of the giant robot anime God Mars (also from 1981), I described it as one two series fundamental to the establishment of the fujoshi fandom as we know it today—the other was Captain Tsubasa. Having read the entirety of the first manga series, I now feel that I understand exactly why this story of young soccer athletes achieved the hat trick of domestic influence, international acceptance, and subculture proliferation.

Let’s talk about the actual story: Captain Tsubasa kicks off with a hell of an introduction to its main character, Ozora Tsubasa. As a small child, Tsubasa is literally saved from a truck by a soccer ball (avoiding the isekai protagonist fate, in the modern parlance), and his life is forever changed. The boy falls in love with the sport, treating the ball like an extension of his body. And as Tsubasa grows from impetuous kid to adult with soccer in his heart (though I only read up to the point where he finishes middle school), he influences every other player he meets, be they friendly or adversarial or both.

Those looking at Captain Tsubasa, especially from a modern perspective, might be surprised by its aesthetic, expecting a title known for its various fandoms to either have characters who look impossibly cool or incredibly beautiful. Instead, Takahashi’s designs feature ridiculously long and stilt-like legs, squashed craniums, and bird-like eye placement that makes it seem as if the characters can see in two different directions at once. How could this possibly be the series that helped spark soccer fandom and spawned shounen sports BL shipping? Yet, despite the odd look of the characters themselves, two things become clear even from the very beginning. 

First, the manga is fantastic at depicting action and tension. When portraying things like passing, dribbling, and goal attempts, the art is very clear and easy to follow while still creating excitement. When the athletes use their ridiculous signature moves (that aren’t meant to be supernatural but still play fast and loose with the laws of physics), there’s a satisfying sense of weight and emotion. The paneling frequently takes advantage of the double page spread to portray very wide shots, especially when points are being scored. It almost feels as if Takahashi made some kind of pact that made him a genius at depicting characters in action in exchange for being bad at drawing them standing still. 

A bunch of manga characters who are elementary school boys in soccer uniforms. Most of the kids look to be realistically young, but the one in front is weirdly lanky and muscular.
Kojiro as a gigantic grade schooler

They’re also all weirdly mature-looking. Some 10-year-olds look like they’re 16, while some 14-year-olds look like they’re 30—something we see in later titles like Prince of Tennis.

Second, many of the tropes of the shounen sports boys genre—namely having a wide-ranging cast of passionate guys engaging in intense forms of camaraderie and rivalry—are on full display here. Wakabayashi Genzo the goalkeeper starts off as Tsubasa’s first antagonist while later developing a nagging ankle injury that stymies him at dramatic moments. Misaki Taro is a student from out of town who becomes Tsubasa’s most reliable partner on offense, but who can only play for their school for a year before his family has to move away. Ace striker Hyuga Kojiro sees Tsubasa as the man he must take down, and his violent, win-at-all-costs mentality comes from a heartfelt desire to support his family. Wakashimazu Ken is a reliable goalkeeper for Kojiro who utilizes his karate background to defy what should be possible in soccer. Matsuyama Hikaru emphasizes teamwork above all else as the captain of his team. Misogi Jun is a handsome and noble all-around genius who would be the greatest youth player in Japan if not for his congenital heart disease that limits his playtime. And there are other characters.

If you were to ask who is Tsubasa’s greatest rival/partner, there really is no clear answer, making the series ripe for explorations of the imagination of various kinds. All the ingredients are there, whether one is reading for the competitive soccer or the bromances, and it’s doubly powerful when you realize how these very characters fueled their archetypal descendents in the following decades. 

It’s also worth noting that all the female characters are the kinds of managers and sideline supporters typical of sports boys series, except that this was an era when they were clearly intended to be romantic partners down the line instead of mainly audience-perspective characters. For example, Tsubasa’s main love interest, Nakazawa Sanae, starts off as a tomboyish ouendan-style cheer squad leader but becomes more “feminine” over time. I actually got a little miffed that the story couldn’t even keep that fun aspect of Sanae’s character. It’s no wonder why the female fans gravitated towards guy-guy pairings, regardless of their inclinations towards BL in the first place.

Two spiky-haired teenage manga boys (who look unusually tall and mature) trying to kick a ball at the same time in midair, which makes them look like they're clashing as martial artists.

But when Captain Tsubasa is at full strength, the excitement jumps off the page. The matches start off as exaggerated depictions of actual soccer before transforming into something that looks more like a battle manga at times. Many scenes feature opposing players clashing in mid-air like they’re Fist of the North Star characters who happen to have a soccer ball between them, and while it does start to feel ridiculous, I can’t deny the infectious energy. Though its tropes are old hat in the realm of sports boys at this point, the series holds up very well. There’s so much manly passion in this manga that it’s no wonder it formed so many different fandoms and even played a part in making soccer a national sport in Japan. 

Personally speaking, the ball is not my friend, but maybe Captain Tsubasa is now.

Deku and a Culture in Conflict: The End of My Hero Academia

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My Hero Academia by Horikoshi Kohei is a manga that has stood out thanks to its gorgeous art, variety of memorable characters, and exploration on what it means to “do good” and “be a hero.” It ties together the popular genre of the shounen battle manga with the classic American trope of the superhero, and provides a simple but profound setup that evokes the best of both. Now, after 10 years, the series has concluded, and the reception to its ending seems to be rather mixed. While that is likely a case of “the loudest voices” in online discussion, it’s also a reflection of how MHA has long attracted a variety of readers with values that conflict a great deal.

Warning: Spoilers for the entirety of My Hero Academia

Plot and Circumstances

My Hero Academia is the story of a boy named Midoriya Izuku, also known as Deku. In a world where superhuman powers referred to “quirks” are commonplace, Deku dreams of becoming like his idol, the #1 hero All Might. Unfortunately, he discovered at a young age that he is entirely quirkless, all but dashing his hopes. But a chance encounter with All Might leads to the living legend transferring his power to Deku, making the boy the latest in a long line of individuals to carry a mysterious power called “One for All.” This sets Deku on a path towards entering UA Academy, Japan’s most prestigious school for aspiring heroes. Over the course of the series, Deku and his friends learn the ins and outs of being a hero, but also the fact that there are profound disagreements as to what that entails.The emergence of villains, including ones with ties all the way back to All Might’s prime years, adds a thread of history that connects past to present.

So much of MHA reflects the period and circumstances in which it ran. In 2014, titans of Shounen Jump like Naruto and Bleach were in their sunset years, and these series had helped popularize massive casts of uniquely powered characters through which readers can find their own favorites. MHA is cut from this cloth, with all of Deku’s friends and teachers providing a veritable smorgasbord of possibilities. Then there’s Deku himself, with his pure heart and humble desire to help others, who was one of the vanguards of a generation of “good boy” leads. And back when the series began, the Marvel superhero movies were truly a global phenomenon; I suspect that their cultural penetration in Japan is part of why readers gave MHA a chance. 

But a lot changes over the course of a decade. The Marvel Cinematic Universe has dragged on and suffered from all the problems that plagued the overly convoluted comics. Antiheroes never fell entirely out of fashion, and there has always been a contingent of readers who see Deku as boringly naive and someone who needs to learn how dark and difficult the world actually is. His rival Bakugo, a former friend turned bully, is hotheaded and violent, and one of those characters whom certain fans saw as the real star. 

A big question surrounding Bakugo’s popularity was the degree to which fans liked him because they saw him as someone who could change (particularly in regards to personal redemption for his terrible behavior towards Deku), and to what extent people liked him precisely because he’s an asshole. When the series then brings a more extreme version of this dynamic, the question of whether someone deserves forgiveness or a second chance becomes a lot more fraught: The hero Endeavor has a history as an abusive father, for instance, and the villain Shigaraki (responsible for many evils) is himself a product of generational trauma and manipulation. MHA seems to touch directly and indirectly on many cultural flashpoints of the past decade by virtue of being a series that 1) wants to portray a bunch of powerful and attractive guys and girls, 2) is very much centered around different ideas of hard work, camaraderie, and justice, and 3) is a long-running shounen series with lots of plot threads, which means pacing becomes an issue at some points.

The Ending

So when the final chapter came out, it was perhaps inevitable that the reaction would be mixed. There are too many different people with their own perspectives reading this series in their own ways. Even so, it still surprised me how much disappointment seemed to resonate through the fandom. Some interpreted his new life as a quirkless UA Academy teacher to be a bittersweet outcome. They saw it as unfair that a guy who saves the world gets little fanfare and legacy, especially because he loses his powers leading the charge to defeat the ultimate villain of the series, All-for-One. Even All-for-One apparently falls short as a major villain. Other criticismsI’ve seen include the lack of resolution for romantic shops, that outside of a brief period as a vigilantes, Deku never develops a “dark side,” and that having his old classmates develop a Batman/Iron Man–esque super suit for him is a cop-out ending.

Yet the ending is so appropriately Deku. It’s fitting that he would accomplish arguably the greatest feat his world has ever seen and then recede from the spotlight, only to be pulled back into it by the people whose lives he changed. Deku goes through a great many ordeals throughout the entire story, and while he learns that the world presents some complex moral quandaries, those tribulations also reinforce Deku’s inherently kind nature. He sacrifices All Might’s gift to him, One-for-All, to get through to his primary nemesis and rival, Shigaraki. He ultimately reconciles with a changed Bakugo, but not without taking many lumps in the process. In the aftermath of the final battle, he even encourages a villain to write a book about his perspective on why Shigaraki was the greatest, because Deku wants to hear the story he has to tell. And while Deku isn’t holding hands with Ochako (the #1 romantic prospect in the series) by the end, he does call her “his hero.” Even if they’re not officially together in the final chapter, they’re still only in their early 20s, with plenty of life ahead of them. 

It reminds me of the backlash against the ending of Gurren-Lagann, which was also a series where fans loved seeing the hero reach ever greater heights that all seemed to lead to a perfect happy ending, only for a slight twist at the end to break the tidal wave of endorphins the series had been generating at the end. I saw fans at the time its last episode aired express such anger and frustration at its ending, while missing the fact that the hero’s actions signify that the errors of past generations won’t be made by him.

Other Thoughts

I know that some of the problems were caused by questionable fan translations that made Deku seem a lot sadder than he actually was. But even taking all that into consideration, it’s strange to me that “teacher at UA Academy” is joked about as being some kind of perverse punishment. It allows Deku to apply one of his greatest strengths—his love of studying and analyzing quirks—in a way that connects to his inherent desire to help others. Deku’s humble nature is central to his being, and while I don’t wish to analyze the readers themselves, I can’t help but wonder how many people dream of being showered with praise for doing something great, and feel at odds with Deku’s values. If Deku has any great flaw, it’s his willingness to sacrifice himself at any moment, and even that is turned on its head by the fact that his friends found a way to make him a superhero again. 

It also juxtaposes him against All-for-One, who is ultimately shown to be a lifelong sociopath and the embodiment of selfishness. Speaking of whom, I can understand why readers might be disappointed that All-for-One turns out to have pretty uncomplicated motivations instead of those of a true mastermind, but I also think that contrast makes for an important point. For all his power and influence, he was ultimately no better than an emotionally stunted individual whose infamy and accomplishments masked an otherwise naked avarice. “Wasn’t he just a big baby in the end?” Yes, both figuratively and literally, and I can think of a couple real world examples who are exactly this way. The idea that great evil doesn’t need great motivation is deceptively simple.

Final Thoughts

With a series like My Hero Academia, it’s impossible to satisfy everyone who read it, especially because so many disparate groups came to this series. For some, it was a breath of fresh air in manga and comics. For others, it was their introduction to anime and manga. It was a mix of two of the world’s biggest genres with a few others thrown into the pot, and it went on for 10 years. Did it drag at times and leave some plot threads untied? For sure—that was almost inevitable. Yet I do feel that My Hero Academia successfully kept its core intact. There is growth, but growth doesn’t have to mean tossing away everything that made you who you are. For all the ups and downs, I think Horikoshi stuck the landing by remaining true to the hero he created.

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba and Kibutsuji Muzan’s Great Flaw

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Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba’s Hashira Training Arc has just finished, acting as the prelude to the end. There’s a controversy over its pacing (namely that it streeetches out what is a brief section of the manga despite relatively little source material), but I’d like to put that aside to talk about what I think is the most important moment from the season—one that highlights a core aspect of the main antagonist, Kibutsuji Muzan.

In the final episode of the Hashira Training Arc, Muzan confronts the head of the Demon Slayer Corps, Ubuyashiki Kagaya, who is bedridden and not long for the world. The eternally youthful Muzan mocks Ubuyashiki for his physical deterioration, only for Ubuyashiki to speak about Muzan’s obsession with his own immortality. The demon slayer leader juxtaposes this obsession with the driving animus of the Demon Slayer Corps: though it may consist of mortals, their collective will to defeat the demons lives on. In contrast, the demons rely entirely on Muzan for their continued existence. If he perishes, so too will they.

There lies the inherent opposition between the group structure of demon slayers vs. demons. Muzan has created a system where he alone holds all the cards, going beyond even the most tyrannical despot. And not only does he view his minions as property, he is unwilling to cede any degree of power to them if it is not under his full control. Whereas Ubuyashiki’s followers come to respect him for his compassion and determination, the demons cower in abject fear of Muzan because they are nothing without him. The Demon Slayer Corps legacy carries on, and not simply through childbirth. Instead, it is accomplished primarily through teaching and raising the next generation to be better.

The difference between Ubuyashiki and Muzan comes down to selfishness. It’s the boss who expects everyone to be at their beck and call, the narcissistic parental figure who demands their children listen to them just because, the political leader who passes laws to benefit themselves rather than their citizens. It didn’t have to be the case that toppling Muzan ends the demons, but the man set it up that way, mistakenly believing his weakness to be strength. As we now await the final movie trilogy to conclude Demon Slayer, I’m interested in seeing how this all plays out.

I Finished Reading the Saint Seiya Manga

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Five teenage boys all clad in extremely ornate, shining armor, joining fists while shouting, "Time to unite our lives and cosmos, and strike at Hades!!"

I can finally say that I am hip to the trends of 20th-Century South American anime and manga fandom, as well as other fandoms worldwide. I have continued my reading of the original Saint Seiya all the way to the end, and I now know who the characters are, where their appeal lies, and what makes the series so memorable. At least, I think I do.

Saint Seiya (also known as Knights of the Zodiac) is a 1980s Shounen Jump manga about Seiya, a teen orphan who earns the power of a mystical armor called the Bronze Pegasus Cloth in order to find his missing sister. However, taking this path results in him having to fight rival Saints, before eventually teaming up with them to take on greater threats—including the forces of Greek gods. The series takes a while to find its footing, but once it all coalesces, the result is a work full of passionate pretty boys with intense camaraderie whose many battles take readers through a roller coaster of emotions as one shocking development leads continuously to the next.

It’s very clear to me that the series plays things by ear rather than possessing a more concrete long-term plan. Many seemingly important plot points fall by the wayside, as if the author, Kurumada Masami, wasn’t always sure what Saint Seiya should be. It takes a circuitous path to becoming the tales of Athena’s Saints protecting the Earth, and even after that, many arcs conclude feeling like they might be the last. Characters frequently come back to life or have their armor seemingly irreparably broken only to be restored in some never-before-seen way. According to George Horvath, a big Kurumada fan, the author actually let the readers decide who would join the team, and the series does really feel like it was built in part off fan input in a manner similar to pro wrestling.

But what carries the manga through is just the sheer spectacle and excitement built around its core cast, the Bronze Saint, all of whom have very distinct personalities and appeal. Pegasus Seiya is brave and clever, as is befitting a shounen protagonist. Dragon Shiryu is wise and righteous like a kung fu master. Cygnus Hyoga is cool yet fierce. Andromeda Shun is gentle and compassionate. Phoenix Ikki is headstrong and stoic, his sparse appearances akin to a much less merciless and infinitely more effective Tuxedo Mask who throws traumatic hallucinations instead of roses. Every time one of them gets to shine, their most prominent qualities are on full display and add to the drama of the moment.

One thing that increasingly stood out to me is how every character is extremely willing to sacrifice themselves for others. Again and again, warriors both major and minor try to throw their bodies into the jaws of doom to help save the day. At one point, in what’s called the Poseidon Arc, a critical moment goes from Seiya willing to attack in a way that could cost him his life; to the female character Eagle Marin using her body to shield Seiya; to Seiya trying to shield Marin instead; to Shiryu shielding both; to Shiryu, Hyoga, and Shun forming a wall. It’s a whole lot of wreckless selflessness.

Saint Seiya is the origin of the once-notable “boys in armor” genre, but its reach extends beyond that immediate purview of Samurai Troopers and Brave Command Dagwon. The series is known for being huge with BL fans in the 1980s, and was a major force in the doujinshi scene at that time. It really is no wonder, what with all these fit-looking guys with expressive eyes acting passionate and emotional as they get bloodied and bruised in combat. Without even knowing beforehand, Shun and Shiryu would seem incredibly popular in this regard, the former with his soft and feminine aura, and the latter with his sharp features and long black hair. I don’t know for sure how aware Kurumada was about this fandom, but there are multiple times where Saint Seiya seems to try to get more hetero (are those sparks flying between Seiya and Athena???)—though it always ends up receding into the distance. Call it a template for future works in shounen.

Famously, the manga artist group CLAMP got their start drawing Saint Seiya BL doujinshi. When I think about that fact, I feel like I can tell that the CLAMP aesthetic owes itself in some part to the look of Saint Seiya. Especially in something like RG Veda, the handsome and beautiful characters, the detailed yet confusing full-page attacks, and the general atmosphere evoke the struggles of Seiya and his allies to a certain degree. 

Speaking of art style, I know that there is some debate among the fandom about Kurumada’s art style, which tends to be less conventional than the anime adaptation’s character designs. I can see why this divide exists, but I think there’s a certain charm to the manga’s look—an extension of its overall nonstop intensity. Even if the characters’ faces look kind of lopsided, it still carries an energy befitting Saint Seiya.

Although it rushes to wrap up a few dangling plot threads, Saint Seiya ends pretty decisively, making the reading experience satisfying overall. As is the case when I check out big titles from the past, it’s both entertaining and helps give me greater context for both manga history and manga fandom. As both a standalone work and a series that would inspire so much, it stands the test of time.

Mashle and the Difference Between Fighting and Self-Defense

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In the past few years, I’ve developed a terrible interest in reading and viewing arguments about martial arts, from kung fu to MMA and beyond. There’s a combination of established knowledge, lost knowledge, myths and legends, fraudsters, hero worship, dick-waving, differing philosophies, and genuine curiosity that makes it a weirdly compelling shit soup. During these trawls, I occasionally see an argument that goes something like “If their kung fu is so great, why don’t they prove it in the ring, and also make a ton of money?” 

But what I was surprised to find is a response of sorts to that question in the pages of the manga Mashle—a series that asks, “What if Harry Potter was a non-magical himbo who overcame all obstacles through comically absurd physical prowess like Saitama from One Punch Man?” Not only does Mashle do a surprisingly good job of addressing the inequality inherent in its world, but it also cuts through expectations in other ways too, including how and why people learn to fight.

It’s important to note that con artists are a dime a dozen in the world of martial arts. It’s the realm of claims of supposed no-touch knockouts, poison fists, and chi energy. Even when you put such ridiculous “feats” aside, there are plenty of generic schools that are justifiably derided as “McDojos” or “belt factories,” essentially teaching nothing of substance. Because of this, many have reasonably become skeptical towards anyone who purports to fight with superhuman abilities. Asking for real proof makes sense, but there’s this peculiar jump in logic I see sometimes, where “prove it in the ring“ becomes “doesn’t everyone want to prove themselves?”

That’s where Mashle and its hero, Mash Burnedead, come in. During one of Mash’s most fearsome battles to date, his opponent says, “I’ve found someone who I can unleash my full powers against. I feel…invigorated. You must feel it too—the desire to fight even greater opponents.”

To which Mash responds, “Not really. I don’t want to fight stronger people. I don’t find it exciting at all. I still…just want to go home.”

This whole scene is a brief gag in a larger action scene, but Mash’s answer is a succinct counterpoint to the notion that everyone who truly learns how to fight has this killer instinct they need to unleash upon the world, whether for profit, fame, or to prove something. It actually takes a particular kind of person to want to willingly get in harm‘s way in order to show the world what they’re capable of.

One of the martial arts videos I‘ve watched (see above) is from an instructor on Youtube named Adam Chan, about the Hakka fist. As Adam explains, the Hakka are an ethnic group in China who were historically very poor and had to migrate a lot, and the various martial arts they developed came from civilians needing to survive against prejudice and xenophobia rather than as part of an army or in order to engage in duels. This is where Mash is: he didn‘t learn how to fight because of ego, bravado, a thirst for more, or because of a chip on his shoulder. He did it to protect himself and those dear to him. 

Within online discussions of martial arts and fighting, conversations end up getting geared towards “Whose kung fu is strongest?” in the literal sense. But Mash Burnedead represents the reminder that sometimes it’s the wrong question to ask. The desire to hurt others and risk getting yourself hurt in the process is not the only way to view things, even if there is a certain glamor to the idea of honing oneself into a human weapon. 

I Started Reading the Saint Seiya Manga

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Pegas Seiya and Dragon Shiryu facing off with their armors shattered, their respective constellation animals prominently shown in the background

Saint Seiya is a series I’ve long known about, but one I’ve never really engaged with at its core. Sure, I loved Saint Seiya Omega. The opening theme and anthem of the franchise, “Pegasus Fantasy,” is always great at karaoke. When the characters came around on SaltyBet, things were bound to get interesting. And years before all that, I caught episodes of the English dub that committed the sin of replacing the aforementioned anthem with a middling cover of “I Ran.” Yet, I put off experiencing the original works—until now. I began to read the manga (available in English on the Shonen Jump app), and I certainly have Some Thoughts.

Because of subcultural exposure and the fact that I explore and research a lot about manga, I already have an image in my head of Saint Seiya as a work about guys teaming up to fight gods from Greek mythology using special celestial armors called “Cloth.” I know it is the pioneering work in the “boys in armor” subgenre from which spawned works like Samurai Troopers, Shurato, and Reideen the Superior. I’m fully aware that in terms of worldwide popularity, the US is the exception rather than the norm: the franchise is a beloved classic. And as for its reputation for featuring pretty boys engaging in passionate battles rife with blood and tears—a combination that has made it a hit with all genders—that really says it all. Intensity, thy name is Saint Seiya. What I wasn’t prepared for is just how different the manga feels at the beginning, and how many twists and turns it takes even in the first handful of chapters.

Nothing says a certain series or franchise has to stay the same forever. Consistency can be good, but it’s not the only path to greatness. When it comes to classic Jump manga especially, there’s more than a few examples of significant pivots. Kinnikuman starts as an Ultraman parody and ends up as a wrestling story. The card game that defines Yu-Gi-Oh! in pop culture was originally a one-off story. YuYu Hakusho goes from detective mysteries to tournament arcs galore. While Saint Seiya doesn’t stray quite that far from its early roots of armored boys fighting fiercely, there are definitely points at which it feels like the author, Kurumada, was playing it by ear. 

There’s a lot about different characters defying established order without readers having knowledge of what that order is, exemplified by the protagonist Seiya. He’s trying to find his sister, and in order to do so, he has to get this magical Greek armor, but then he refuses to play by the rules and instead escapes to Japan to…enter a tournament? But even that ends up being a pretense to meet the other “Bronze Knights,” who are adversaries turned eventual allies. And the incarnation of the goddess Athena, whom they’re apparently meant to fight for, begins the story as a snobby rich girl whose dad has adopted like a hundred orphans to be potential Cloth bearers. Well, okay.

Saint Seiya seems more built on spectacle than anything else, or perhaps its plot is just a pretense for putting on display these cool guys in hot fights. I say that not as a criticism but more as an observation, because I think that such an approach does make for a memorable work, as it’s more about the aura of excitement than trying to dot every “i” and cross every “t.” This early on, I know that Saint Seiya hasn’t reached the pinnacle of its power level yet, and I think I’m going to appreciate that journey. 

Mashle Is the Answer to Harry Potter (No, Really)

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Harry Potter is synonymous with magical school fantasy, defining the genre for an entire generation. However, one criticism I increasingly see is that it’s more about maintaining/restoring the status quo rather than trying to effect a real and lasting positive societal change that goes beyond defeating evil. While it’s a bit unfair to pigeonhole the books in this way, it’s also hard to deny that Harry Potter eschews structural issues about the world it presents, and that this is not especially uncommon in similar fiction.

That’s why the last place I expected to see a more boldly progressive take on the inequities of a wizarding society would come in the form of a comedic shounen manga called Mashle: Magic & Muscles.

I want to be clear that Mashle is not some leftist manifesto that proudly announces its overthrowing of capitalist oppressors. Jack London’s The Iron Heel this most certainly is not. But when you compare how Mashle and Harry Potter tackle the same premise, the differences stand out.

Both protagonists, Harry Potter and Mash Burnedead, enroll in a magic school where they must deal with being outsiders while also being under the benevolent watch of the school’s wise, old leader. However, whereas Harry Potter at the start is simply inexperienced with wizardry but has potential for greatness, Mash is completely incapable of magic. In order to get through his classes and achieve his goal of becoming Divine Visionary (a motivation from the beginning unlike Harry’s initial uncertainty), Mash has to overcome his disadvantage through sheer physical power. 

The contest between Mash’s muscles and the occult abilities he faces is generally played for laughs, but there’s another layer to that contrast. Sure, it’s funny to see his “magic” be activating different muscle groups and his “spells” amount to suplexes and punches to the face. Yet, because he is doing this purely through his human physiology, his victories over other students both read differently from Harry’s accomplishments and are received differently by the very mages he bests. By beating them without magic, Mash makes his opponents realize on some level that they are themselves victims because of how they’ve been drawn into society’s incessant and blinding obsession with hierarchy and power. The problem is not exclusive to any specific group of rogue ne’er-do-wells, it’s systemic.

Mash himself is not a sharp mind capable of bold leadership. He’s from that Goku/Luffy/Saitama lineage where thinking is not their strong suit. He merely wants to live a comfortable life with his grandfather, but he’s forced to attempt the impossible and become the top of a magical school because his world despises the weak. Mash defies his society in multiple ways: upending what strength means, as well as rejecting the notion that those with less deserve less.

Around Chapter 65, the “Voldemort” of the series is revealed, as are Mash’s true origins. While not quite the same as the concept of horcruxes relative to Harry and Voldemort, Mash and the main villain share a similar connection. Mash turns out not to be the everyman he assumed himself to be, but that doesn’t change the fact that he uses his particular skills to upend people’s preconceived notions. The difference between Harry discovering the magic within and Mash working to overcome the magic he lacks remains stark.

That all said, it’s hard to think of Mashle as being in the same league as Harry Potter when it comes to the ability to capture people’s imaginations. It simply doesn’t have that sense of wonder that makes Harry Potter so enduring; instead, it goes for lots of comedy, absurdity, and the occasional cool fight. Spiritually, it’s cut from the same cloth as Kinnikuman and early Dragon Ball, during the kid Goku era. I have trouble seeing children running around pretending to be Mash because Mashle doesn’t really provide for that.

Mashle and Harry Potter both operate under the idea that the power of love is in a category of its own. But where Harry Potter’s is either abstract in its sentimentality or all too literal, Mashle’s manifests in a grandfather taught the value of human life, and a grandson who strives to live up to that ideal through both word and deed.

The Shonen Jump Meat Grinder: Why So Many Manga Die Young

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With a bunch of new Shounen Jump titles debuting as of late, I’ve written a new post over at Apartment 507 about the high turnover rate of Jump manga. Check it out!

Shounen Sports and Girl Appeal

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I’ve been watching two shounen anime adaptations as of late, Yowamushi Pedal and Kuroko’s Basketball. The former runs in Weekly Shounen Champion, the latter in Weekly Shounen Jump. When you look the contents of each series, it’s almost obvious, as if they embody the general direction each magazine has taken, but not in a way which denies either their contemporary nature or their shounen-ness.

In this age where the definition of shounen manga has been in flux, Shounen Champion is the most primary source of classic, old-fashioned shounen manga where a boy does his best to fight and improve. It fits the basic goal of that magazine quite well, which is to be a boys’ magazine for boys, though Yowamushi Pedal isn’t without its modern flairs, including having a more handsome rival for the main character.

Shounen Jump on the other hand is arguably the mainstream boys’ magazine which has embraced its female audience the most, outside of Jump variations which specifically target that audience. Kuroko’s Basketball, like Prince of Tennis before it, is filled with good-looking guys handsomely showing their best. Even if they’re not fujoshi, there’s a clear appeal to girls in it, though overall the series still has in common with Yowamushi Pedal the thrill of sports and competition.

One thing that both series share is the female manager archetype, who more broadly fits into the “knowledgeable supporter” role as well. The idea is that, while they’re not participants in the main activity of each series, they bring an enthusiasm and a set of knowledge that helps the reader understand the sport better while also acting as a cheerleader for the main character and maybe providing a bit of eye candy, though I don’t think either Miki from Yowamushi Pedal or Riko from Kuroko’s Basketball are quite the characters you’d go to for cheesecake. At the same time, I think there’s a certain substantial difference between Miki and Riko, which is that Miki is clearly a love interest for the main character, whereas Riko if she has any romantic involvement at all is with a side character in the series.

I think the fact that Riko is not a love interest, and arguably that Kuroko’s Basketball has no main female love interest for its main character at all (Momo is ostensibly one but her connection to Aomine seems stronger) speaks a lot to the difference in their magazines.  I don’t think this just has to do with Kuroko’s Basketball having a fujoshi fanbase which prefers pairing the guys together, either. If anything, I get an almost shoujo manga-esque impression of Riko’s relationship with Hyuuga and Teppei due to their interactions, not in the sense of hearts and sparkles in the background, but from its use of Riko as a character in her own right.