A one-week break between episodes 3 and 4, followed by the coming of August and thus my summer vacation that took me away from home for a couple of weeks, was a sequence of events that certainly didn’t help in retaining any semblance of the consistency this blog already lacked. What I did retain throughout the past month though, is my overflowing enthusiasm for this show (as those of you who follow me on Twitter are probably sick of hearing about) and naturally, it’s the last thing on my mind to give up on this series of blogposts breaking it down, no matter how behind schedule I am.

So, it’s with great pleasure that I finally present you with another instance of my ramblings about Shoushimin Series, this time covering episodes 3 & 4, Humpty Dumpty and Mind of a Lone Wolf.

Episode 3 – ハンプティ • ダンプティ: Humpty Dumpty

Right after the intro scene, which is already remarkable in itself and its successful approach to present the tension-filled classroom where Osanai and her fellow classmates are taking their exam, immersed in a diegetic silence with no background music in order to make the sound effect of the glass vase suddenly breaking stand out even more, we’re back to a very familiar scenery, one in which the emphasis on the layouts is the sole and most important visual trend.

As episodes 1 and 2 got us well used to, in this show, presenting the differences (or the similarities, or even the boundaries) between the members of the main cast is a job best suited for the layouts. The way the characters are framed in relation to one anther (or to the background and foreground elements) almost always encodes a subtle description of themselves or their relationships. This much was true throughout the course of the first two episodes, and while unsurprising, it’s still surely a delight to see the same visual trend being brought over to episode 3.

For example, both Frame 1 and Frame 2 effectively convey who, between Kobato and Osanai, is more fond of sweet foods and desserts, each one in its own way; for instance, in Frame 1, only Osanai‘s face is showing, directly staring at the cakes, and not only the number of sweets is larger on her side of the frame, but the cakes themselves look more elaborate and full of sweet ingredients compared to the ones on Kobato‘s side. Frame 2 on the other hand, takes a more direct approach, “physically” separating the two characters with the frame of the window in front of them (also using different colors for their seats), and making it clear at a glance whose order on the table is more substantial and overflowing with sugar (it’s also a nice detail how the bowl seemingly containing milk pods and the sugar for their drinks is, too, on Osanai‘s side of the frame).

Albeit not focused on distinctions and symmetries, the next sequence as well, when Kobato temporarily leaves Osanai alone at Humpty Dumpty to retrieve his smartphone from the locker in his classroom (as well as to investigate the truth behind this episode’s first case), features a layout-focused presentation that struggles to feel uninteresting, immersing Kobato inside the environment he’s intent on exploring.

If there’s something I love when it comes to visual-oriented storytelling (perhaps again thanks to Hyouka’s incredible direction in a similar circumstance), is when the passage of time, even if trivial, is left untold in the narrative and it’s instead conveyed through visual elements or small changes in them. There are obviously several “levels” to this, the most common and coincidentally least interesting one being a change in the lighting suggesting, for example, the transition from afternoon to evening with the sky turning red. Shoushimin, on its hand, handles it with a more sophisticated (and thus more subtle) technique, that is, showing us a still shot of the cakes on Osanai‘s side of the table as soon as Kobato gets back to the sweets shop. What such a shot has to do with the passage of time is pretty straightforward: the three plates in front of our gluttonous yet minute girl still have each a piece of cake on top, and more importantly, they’re completely different cakes from the ones she was eating before Kobato leaved earlier, implying enough time has passed for Osanai to finish up her previous order and make a new one (and, if it wasn’t clear enough already, that she really, really likes sweets).

As a side-note, the still shot also follows Kobato‘s movement directing his sight to the cakes, somewhat implying that he too was noticing this same detail.

Moving on to the second part of the episode story-wise, we’re greeted with yet another strong showcase of expressive framing.
The one I personally find the most interesting and clever is Frame 3; when our two main characters are chasing down Sakagami right after spotting him riding Osanai’s stolen bicycle, the moment their target becomes unreachable, the way the two pursuers are framed remarks their physical inability to go any further, complementarily to them actually stopping and talking about it. The fences in the foreground literally block Osanai and Kobato‘s movements, completely covering their bikes as well as the lower half of their bodies (i.e. their legs), making it extremely clear to the viewer that they are forced to stop there (and additionally conveying a slight sense of frustration and powerlessness).

The later instances, like in frames 4 and 5 (after the two figure out exactly what the culprit’s movements were, with Kobato impersonating him in a similar fashion to how episode 1 and 2 tackled the visualization of the characters’ thought processes), involve a strong use of negative space. In Frame 4 for example, Kobato‘s upper half is cut off, and only Osanai and her broken bike fit in the frame. Frame whose proportions feel odd and unbalanced, purposefully so, in order to gradually portray the sense of unease surrounding Osanai‘s mental state in regard to the unfortunate situation she’s unwillingly part of.

It’s noteworthy how, from the moment out sweets-loving girl starts to progressively show her true colors, an increasingly deeper sense of distance is implied by the storyboard (and by extension, the derived layouts) as Kobato and Osanai are almost never framed together, and when they are, they’re never placed on the same layer of depth.

Talking about the true colors, the trope introduced right in the first episode of presenting the character’s mental spaces as physical manifestations is used once again, this time in a slightly different manner.
What feels the most jarring here is not the spatial dislocation, but rather, the chronological one, as the blood-red colors of the sudden sunset that pervade the entire sequence instill a feeling of danger and fear throughout the scene (and are particularly successful at doing that thanks to the incredible color coordination work by Tomomi Kato and the photography at play). We, including Kobato, as hinted in Frame 7 that he is the foreign presence, have clearly been transported into Osanai‘s own mind, and are finally able to catch a glimpse of her true nature; or in other words, what restrains her from being a full-fledged “ordinary person“.

Before wrapping up, I can’t fail to mention how thorough and genuinely expressive the character acting has been all throughout the episode, especially so during the last sequence when Kobato is exhibiting his own discomfort to Kengo. This, paired with the incredibly polished and detailed drawings, allow this series to showcase its characters’ emotions in an essentially natural way, without falling into an overly dramatic presentation, retaining in fact the very grounded and heartfelt pragmatism central to the vision behind this adaptation.

One last neat detail worthy of mention is the use of the environment and weather to describe Kobato‘s feelings; as his mind gets clearer thanks to the exchange he had with his old friend, the cloudy and moody sky turns clearer as well, drastically lightening the tone of the scene. Although it’s by no means an innovative trope, the beautiful execution makes for a perfect conclusion to yet another amazing episode.

Episode 4 – 狐狼の心: Mind of the Fox & the Wolf

After the aforementioned one-week break, continuing directly from where the last episode left off, episode 4 begins in Kobato and Kengo‘s classroom, and it traps us there with the two of them for nearly the entire 23-minute runtime. A deliberate choice for sure, one that finds its reasons in both a specific directorial approach and a cost-efficiency need.

It might not be perfectly appropriate to call episode 4 as a whole a “bottle episode”, since, especially in its later phases, the location does change a few times and other characters make their appearance. However, in the first two-thirds of the episode, we’re presented with a continuous back-and-forth of similarly framed shots and cuts, depicting just the two friends more or less intent on finally piecing together this story-arc’s main case. Meticulously abiding by the 180-degree rule, this long-lasting exchange of questions, answers and theories is surprisingly able to keep the audience (or at the very least, me) engaged all throughout, despite nothing really happening during these 15 minutes we spend with Kobato and Kengo exclusively inside their classroom, with the exception of a specific instance that I’m going to adequately address later.
In addition to being a successful visual approach, it’s also a relatively low-cost one at that, as it’s somewhat noticeable that the drawings look ever so slightly less polished than usual, and setting up the whole sequence to bounce between homogeneous shots like this helps mitigating the potential inconsistencies and irregularities a seemingly lower-budget episode might be subject to.

Overall, the usual visual theme of symmetry was also at times featured throughout the episode, not prominently so, like in the previous ones, mostly due to a lack of necessity to convey yet some other details about the characters’ relationships, which are already well established by now.

The “particular exception” in the setting I mentioned earlier was, as you might have guessed, the physically abstract visualization of the characters’ minds we’re extremely used to at this point.
Much like last episode’s, this scene too takes a slightly different approach compared to its predecessors; in the previous iterations, the locations where the characters were figuratively transported to only served a purpose in deallocating the mental processes from the physical world, creating a sense of immersion and isolation as I’ve already discussed in my previous blogpost, and as far as I could tell, had no intrinsic meaning inscribed into them. This time however, a strong emphasis is placed on the “movements” occurring inside this ephemeral space. Specifically, Kobato‘s interaction with the spiral staircase has a rather distinct symbolic utility. He’s the only one of the two who’s willingly and steadily climbing up the staircase, getting closer and closer to the solution, implying that between him and Kengo, he’s actually the only one who’s actively engaged in the thinking (as Kengo‘s body language also seems to suggest).

What I liked the most about this sequence though, was the implied continuity between the abstract space and the real world, as Kobato‘s movement starts on the metaphorical overpass and ends in front of the blackboard, back into the classroom. Not only it greatly improves the fluidity of the scene, but it also establishes a clear connection between the two worlds maintaining the same focus as earlier, set on the physical motion.

I believe this time, the real potential of these conceptual sequences was truly, fully realized, making the scene feel even more compelling and captivating than usual, not only in its presentation but also in the contributions it made to the actual narrative.

As a closing note, another scene towards the end of the episode that caught my eye, is the one where Kobato and Osanai are having a very high-pressure talk about their promise. Having both broken their vow to become ordinary people in some capacity over the course of the last few episodes, the future of their relationship as it stands now is precarious and unstable, and both of them feel somewhat uneasy about their recurring lack of abidance. This scene does a masterful job at conveying such palpable intensity, making use of increasingly tighter and suffocating camera angles, relentlessly stitched together until the discussion reaches its climax with the extremely close-up shots on the characters’ eyes (frames 1 and 2). It’s only when the two finally reach a satisfying conclusion that all the tension is promptly released in a wider, more spacious shot (Frame 3).

Putting to good use the various visual means animations has to offer is a non-trivial task, and Shoushimin Series has proved once again its inherent ability to do so.

Despite how late I am posting this commentary, I hope I’ve managed to offer some interesting insights nonetheless. There are always so many details and cues embedded in this show that I don’t think I’ll ever run out of things to say and point out in these breakdowns. My schedule is a bit tight right now, but I’m really looking forward to write about episodes 5 and 6 next!

It’s 2014, I’m a middle-school student and on my journey getting into anime I stumble across KyoAni‘s adaptation of Hyouka. Aside from its contents, which I’m still deeply attached to to this day, it’s exactly this show that years later (that is, a few years ago) got me interested in the production of Japanese animation as a whole, or to put it into the right, narrower context, in the “technical” aspects of it, such as storyboarding or direction. Hyouka being a masterclass example of both these things certainly helped, but who I really need to thank for getting me into this world of carefully designed visual exposition, is one of the creators whose content has taught me the most and has changed the way I engage with anime altogether: Replay Value. Specifically, with his Hyouka breakdown series, A Rose-Colored Dissection (which, of course, I encourage everyone who still hasn’t to check out).

Given how influential of a work it’s been for me, I’ve been thinking of writing a series of posts about Hyouka ever since before getting started with this blog, but for now it’s gonna remain an idea, as I think it would end up being just a (probably worse in exposition) repetition of what Replay Value has already done on his hand.
Instead, what I’ll be doing today, trying to retain a semblance of consistency with the format I’ve already used with Kusuriya no Hitorigoto a few seasons back, is a commentary of the new anime series produced by studio Lapin Track, directed by Mamoru Kanbe, Shoushimin Series (localized as “SHOSHIMIN: How to Become Ordinary“).

Why the preamble on Hyouka then? Well, aside from my desire to address the biggest inspirations that led me to do what I’m doing, Shoushimin too is an adaptation of a novel by the pen of Honobu Yonezawa, and although I initially didn’t want to compare it to Hyouka, afraid that making such a connection would feel somewhat forced due to my (heavily) biased attachment to the latter, one episode was enough to hit me with a wave of nostalgia thanks to the intrinsic qualities unavoidably inscribed in its writing, that I couldn’t help but bringing it up anyways. What I was not expecting to see though, were the same idiosyncratic visual quirks (albeit in a different capacity) that made me fall in love with Hyouka (and by extension, animation) years ago.
To be clear, I’m not implying nor meaning to say that the direction of Shoushimin Series has been influenced by Hyouka‘s, nor that they’re trying to replicate it in any way (in fact, I’d argue the two approaches don’t really have all that much in common). Instead, what I meant to say is that Shoushimin too is filled with expedients of visual storytelling, be it via clever framing or a descriptive use of light, that make for a perfect subject for my blogposts.

Well then, here I am, ready to bother you, dear reader, with my inconsistent ramblings about what I can already tell will be one of my favorite media experiences of the year, the Shoushimin Series anime adaptation.

Episode 1 – 羊の着ぐるみ: Sheep Costume

Right off the bat, I’d like to address some general “visual qualities” and features I noticed, like how, with good and refined drawings, the (purposefully) rather simple and malleable character designs by Atsushi Saito were delivered in a very expressive way, well capable of conveying the broad range of emotions exhibited in this premiere. (Literally) on top of that, the compositing also did a fairly good job at integrating the digital “cels” with the realistic backgrounds, making at times use of additional effects to render the scenes in a more true-to-life fashion (like blurring out the objects that are closer to the camera), or more deliberately, to convey a sense of “isolation” or “separation”, like with the fully blurred background in this shot. The color design in general, opting for a properly muted palette, also helped in setting the tone of this story, suggesting on his hand too the overall focus on the mundane.

Another visual feature, albeit not descriptive of the contents of the show, that’s pretty much impossible not to notice since the very beginning of the episode (including the visuals for the opening!) is the 21:9 aspect ratio, as opposed to the nowadays standard 16:9. It’s by no means an “unprecedented feature” in anime or anything on that level, though, it’s still pretty nice to see a TV show almost fully (as the ending visuals will go back to the now-traditional 16:9) committing to it.

Another aspect worth of mention, this time not related to the visuals, is the sound design. With the focus mainly set on reproducing accurate background and ambient noises, the degree of immersion this episode was able to achieve was rather high. This is to say, the well-designed sound effects and the softness (or in some instances, lack) of the soundtrack really helped making the depiction of the world, and the interactions the characters have with it, feel more concrete and grounded in reality.

The main highlights for me were of course the many instances of visual storytelling present throughout the episode, which, by extension, I’d say suggest a broader approach to the direction of this show as a whole.

A lot can be inferred solely from a visual standpoint on the relationship between the two main characters, Osanai and Kobato. The way they’re often laid out, being parallel to each other in a frame whose space is equally divided by some element in the background or foreground (like in frames 1 and 2), implies some sort of contrast between the two, but not in a dichotomic way, rather, in a symmetrical one. As the episode makes clear in its later phases, the two of them are bond together by their mutually shared dream of “becoming ordinary”, which manifests in different but cohesive ways; they strive for the same goal, but they do have their own preferences and identity (for instance, Kobato not being fond of sweet food contrary to the gluttonous Osanai, a characteristic noticeably showcased by the striking difference in their orders in frame 1), which ultimately result in a different approach towards their objective. In other words, their symmetry implies complementarity, not contrast, to one another.

It’s when such visual equality is missing (like in frame 3) that the implications change, and the meaning shifts to another layer, like depicting the difference between being “in the light” or “in the dark” about the solution to a certain hazy case.

Another type of clever framing and layout at play in this episode, certainly is one that implies actual “disconnection” or “distinction” (as in the case of frames 4 and 5). Uneven spacing and positioning in the frame, in addition to a feeling of unease and tension, convey a clear sense of distance that serves to delineate the sharp separation between the two parties, as well as the cohesion of one of them (namely, Kobato and Osanai).

What to me captured the eccentricity of this show’s direction the most, was undoubtedly this whole sequence (which the video above shows just the last portion of), basically, the “unraveling the mystery” sequence. While Kobato is explaining his theory for what had actually happened to Osanai, as the two walk home after having reached a conclusion with the interested party (the “thief”, Takada), we’re shown a visualization of Kobato‘s thought process with him “physically” retracing the culprit’s movements and actions. The sequence then ends with the portion attached above, that is, a compilation of disconnected cuts showcasing the two main characters talking, ultimately stating their will and promise to live as “ordinary people”, and making a little detour to the river on their way home. This a-spatial and a-chronological visual presentation effectively succeeds in feeling immersive and compelling, and in a sense prompts the viewer to actively engage with the scene, rather than experiencing it passively.

I’m calling it a “distinct trait of the direction” because as we’ll see in a moment, the very same peculiar approach is present in the second episode as well, and moreover, this way of presenting the story and the characters’ interactions is totally original to the anime (as one could probably correctly guess), and no trace of this “disconnected” exposition is present in the source novel (which, by the way, I couldn’t help but start reading).

Before jumping into episode 2, I’d like to mention how clever and, more importantly, well-realized of an idea the ending visuals are. Basically, what we’re looking at is a series of live-action photos (albeit with some touch-ups) which the hand-drawn characters move in and interact with, as to once again convey how grounded in reality this whole setting is. On top of looking very nice, I believe it’s neat how every (visual and not) aspect of this show serves a purpose in realizing the well-defined vision behind this adaptation.

Episode 2 – おいしいココアの作り方: How to Make Delicious Hot Cocoa

Starting off in the strongest possible way to maintain the sense of realism established in the first episode, episode 2’s introduction takes place in a beautifully crowded shopping gallery, where the incredible lighting and (again) the very well-designed background sounds really make the already immersive setting feel as grounded in reality as it can possibly be. So grounded that in fact, following the steps of the previous episode, the locations where the events unfold are actually real places.

Some other of the aforementioned visual qualities have also naturally been brought over to this episode too, like the super pretty drawings once again putting to good use the ductile character designs, and the wide spectrum of emotions properly portrayed on the characters’ faces (and notably, the narrower aspect ratio is of course still here as well!).

What I’m most happy to see again though, is obviously the same approach to express and convey in a visual way. In contrast to the first episode, it’s not background elements that draw lines between the characters, rather, this time, the background as a whole and its layout become means to define the boundaries between them.

It’s especially clear that Osanai kind of feels out of place visiting Kengo‘s, Kobato‘s friend, home. Frames 1 and 2 intelligibly hint at that, “encapsulating” the characters inside pre-defined portions of the background, and while Kobato and Kengo fit in the same space, Osanai is the only one that’s not entirely enclosed within the same physical limits. She’s also almost forcibly brought into that same space by Kobato, abruptly so (as the quick shift from the more far away to the really close-up view strongly suggest) with him taking the box with the cakes straight from her hands and offering it to Kengo.

As the two friends begin to talk, it’s quite noticeable how in frame 2, compared to frame 1, Osanai is growing more and more distant from the two; whereas in frame 1, just a small portion of her figure didn’t fit in the same area as Kobato and Kengo, now it’s only that very small portion that’s able to fit in, while the almost entirety of her body finds itself to be out of that boundary. Moreover, not only she’s practically in a different space than the two, she’s also nearly fully covered by the sliding door, as to indicate she’s more of a background presence than a foreground one in the scene.

The frame that does the best job at conveying the character’s “affiliations” with one another, and by extension their division, is definitely frame 3. Not only Kobato and Kengo are again the only ones to fit into the same space together (in this case, the reflection on the mirror) with Osanai being the one that’s now totally left out of it, purposefully placed in the farthest right corner of the frame, but the layout also suggests a broader outline on how the characters are grouped together. Dividing the frame in two sections, the inside the mirror and the outside of it, Kobato is able to fit in both at the same time, with his upper half in one and with his lower half in the other, designing him as the “common ground” between the characters; the mirror reflection contains Kengo but not Osanai, and the outer portion of the room contains Osanai but not Kengo, and Kobato is part of both.

The visual themes of “separation” and “division” are again extensively present throughout the episode, although in a formally different flavor, one that’s nonetheless still able to retain the same level of expressiveness and clarity.

As expected (and not only because I’ve hinted at it earlier), when the characters are putting their efforts into solving the (extremely mundane and unimportant) mystery, the presentation heavily relies on spatial and chronological dislocation, once again also exhibiting their thought processes and theories as a visualization of them actually acting as the culprit.

There’s something so beautifully dissonant in the sudden changes in location and time, especially as they happen without interrupting the flow of the dialogue, almost as if the “outside” is sort of a private, ethereal space, solely dedicated to the more introspective moments inside one’s mind. As they delve deeper into their abstractions and thoughts, they’re transported in another dimension altogether. The characters being in the same headspace is no more just a figurative image, instead, it manifests almost as a physical phenomenon.
I certainly can’t say I’ve experienced other visual presentations of the same concept as eccentric and compelling as this one.

Another aspect of this episode I cannot possibly fail to mention, is the overall focus on body language and mannerism, depicted with such an utterly great accuracy that it truly feels real and heartfelt. The cut above is of course not the sole instance of that, many more examples, including Kengo‘s nervousness to introduce the uneasy topic of the conversation he wants to hold, and Kobato intimately sliding his finger on the border of his cup, are featured here and there all through the episode. Yet another quirk to make this world and characters feel vivid and real.

Lastly, a noteworthy element is the incredibly solid attention to detail when it comes to physical interactions with objects. It’s not every anime’s feat to make you feel the density of every single layer of a piece of cake as a character’s tries to cut through it. And not only that, incredibly accurate fluid animation seems to also be a given throughout this episode.
It all makes perfect sense though, since the main topic of episode 2, as the title doesn’t try to hide in the slightest, is the not-so-secret preparation of a delicious cup of hot cocoa.

Hopefully, I was able to convey in this post even just a tiny bit of all my enthusiasm towards this new series, in addition to providing some maybe-interesting insights about its presentation. I was really anticipating Shoushimin since the day it was announced, but I would have never guessed it would hook me to this extent. It truly encapsulates everything I love about animation as a medium, and having a place (that is, this blog) to extensively talk about it really feels like a blessing to me.

Needless to say, I can’t wait for the next episodes to come out, and I’m sure they too will be filled with cool and neat stuff, well worthy of being written about.