On January 11, just a handful of days before Season 2 started airing, one final PV came out, and amidst the sense of excitement and sheer joy that this sequence of mesmerizing visuals left me with, I realized I had never stopped to think about what it is that makes Frieren look and feel so unique. It’s been roughly two years since Season 1 ended, and all it took was a mere 80 seconds of montage to sharply evoke that very defined—yet hard to describe—set of sensations that finally, “Frieren is back!”.
Today, 29 years and roughly 3 days after the death of Himmel the Hero, we’ll be adventuring through the first episode of this long awaited return, in the pursuit of laying down a decent-enough outlook on Frieren‘s distinctive taste and idiosyncrasies.
While not much has changed in the grand scheme of things compared to season one, this second season of everyone’s favorite elderly elf anime came back with a major internal shift in terms of position of the creatives involved in its production. Essentially all of the core staff members, including the Scriptwriter, Art Director and Color Coordinator, as well as many Episode Directors and Animators, are still (figuratively) sitting at the same desks as two years ago, but the person in charge of coordinating the collective work of this talented crew, as well as defining the overall creative vision for the project, is no longer the man who goes by the name of Keiichiro Saito. Instead, while it might not be groundbreaking news to anyone at this point, Sousou no Frieren‘s second season’s Director is none other than Tomoya Kitagawa, who had previously covered the role of Chief Episode Director for the second cour of the first season (episodes 17 to 28), carrying out several storyboarding and directorial duties.
This significant change wasn’t something forced or imposed by any sort of sinister circumstance; rather, it was actually Saito‘s own intentional decision to step back from a more hands-on position to a more supportive and assistive one, that eventually get credited under the name of “Direction Cooperation”. Now, I don’t wanna delve into what that means practically, as the man himself answered this exact question in a recent interview. Instead, I want to take this as an opportunity to identify and discuss what I believe are Frieren‘s intrinsic strengths, and how this first episode of Season 2—unsurprisingly storyboarded and directed by Series Director Kitagawa himself—proved to have fully understood them and carried them over into this continuation of our party’s laid-back journey to Ende.
Right as the episode started playing, you get instantly overwhelmed by a strong sense of familiarity. For starters, that’s likely because the anime-original opening sequence directly mirrors the very first few cuts of season one’s first episode, this time featuring Fern and Stark by Frieren’s side, instead of the legendary Hero’s party. On a second analysis, you can’t help but feel the nostalgic warmth of Harue Oono‘s soothing & calming color design, that paired with the mesmerizing background art, plays a huge role in making the visuals feel vividly intimate.
The emphasis on natural landscape is one of Frieren‘s key ingredients that undoubtedly make up part of its identity, as Kitagawa pointed out in the aforementioned interview, and these familiar artistic choices, going all the way down to the Photography department, set up the perfect environment to make us feel the connection with seasons one, almost as if time never passed between them.
Things like the peculiar grainy filter are direct visual cues that help unmistakably recognize the specific taste that defines Frieren‘s imagery. Another example of this, are the very spacious and minimal compositions, where the background elements dilute into nothing but the very distinctive sky gradients, granting more room for the shots to breathe, and briefly aligning the visual space of the frame with the tide-like openness of the tempo.
The thoughtful sense of rhythm that permeates every sequence and modulates its pacing, is definitely another major player in establishing the show’s core identity. The contemplative nature of Frieren‘s direction was a distinctive trait of season one, and served as a very deliberate tool to control the flow of information on the screen, allowing the eye of the viewer to rest on specific shots, or redirecting the focus on specific portions of the frame.
The total and careful control over every visual aspect of the production, showcased at virtually any given moment throughout the episode, is what struck me the most while watching the premiere of season two. Maintaining such a high level of intentionality in the way the scenes are staged across the episode’s entire runtime is definitely not something you see often in TV anime. Kitagawa and his team—following Saito‘s experienced guidance—have been confidently building upon the incredibly solid foundation they consolidated throughout the previous 28 episodes. Their remarkable ability to make the most out of the fundamental building blocks of anime, synchronizing all of them under the sharp and essential vision they all believe in, is what ultimately makes Frieren feel so strongly coherent and uniform on the screen. In an way that’s almost meta, this fits really nicely with the story’s themes, when you consider the core principles that set Frieren’s and Fern’s magic style apart from other mages: an outstandingly solid & diligent approach to the very fundamentals of their craft.
Practically speaking, this overarching control is mainly exemplified through the harmonious mise-en-scène, which (as I briefly anticipated earlier) excels at its thoughtful use of space. When I say that the staging is always very deliberate, I mean that the shot compositions are consistently curated to convey a subtle sense of balance (or imbalance, depending on the need) within the main narrative context of this season, which, as Kitagawa made very clear, is our ever-so-goofy trio of main characters and their growing chemistry.
“Balance” is indeed a central theme of this first episode, and a necessary one to prepare the ground for the adventures that Frieren’s party will be going through over the course of the next nine weeks. Visually, it’s the clever use of compositions that equally distribute the density of the elements in the frame into neatly separated sections, that bakes this perception of balance directly into the geometry of the screen.
While also offering cues about the depth of the shot, this precisely three by three sectioning of the screen works almost too perfectly as a visual blueprint to frame Frieren, Fern and Stark as they leisurely find their own space within the party. Each one of them almost always takes up exactly one third of the screen, uniformly distributing the tension across the frame, and making the cuts feel more comfortable and straightforward to follow, as the eyes of the viewers are imperceptibly drawn towards the center of the screen. This framing also helps in conveying figurative distance between the characters, by creating invisible barriers that limit their individual scope of action.
“Alignment” is also a huge visual theme frequently featured in the show, and this episode is certainly no exception to it. Used as either an explicit connection between the past and the present, or a way of stitching together consecutive sequences, parallels always carry a lot of meaning in the visual language of Frieren.
A specific scene of this episode, where Stark and Fern have a brief chat to clear up the First Class Mage’s doubts on the Warrior’s attachment the the party, represents a remarkably well executed example of this theme. Combined with a strikingtonal contrast of warm and cold tints intrinsically creating distance between the two of them, the use contrasting but very much parallel shots of the same object—the lantern—perfectly mirrors the narrative of them finding a renewed alignment, by at first placing the prop disproportionately to the right side of the frame, and later exactly at its center.
The other kind of parallels this show makes conspicuous use of, is the juxtaposition of Frieren’s flashbacks with the present. It might seem like an over-used and perhaps even low-effort expedient, but given how pivotal of a theme the passage of time is to the story, it really contributes in making the transitions feel much more memorable, and in a sense, more weighty too.
As the story shifts its focus toward the growth of the current party, it’s a nice touch to see Frieren proactively drawing the connections between their present journey and Himmel’s party’s, rather than those memories simply occurring to her by coincidence. Maybe she’s really starting to grow more empathetic toward others…
As a closing note, it would be impossible to talk about this premiere without mentioning the stunning bits of animation by Kouta Mori, as well as the amazingly soft character acting towards the end of the episode. Another key to aforementioned consistency are without any doubt the blissfully many corrections by the solo Animation Director, Takasemaru (a.k.a. Akiko Takase).
As Saito recently said, this ideally balanced mixture of action, tender & lyrical sequences, and genuine comedy that comes across as natural, is one of the major reasons behind Frieren‘s immense success.
To be honest, I didn’t expect to write this all in one go. Instead, I started writing this with the idea of drafting a cumulative post, one that would cover more than just a single episode like I usually do on this blog. However, as I kept fleshing out my condensed thoughts after re-watching the episode, I realized it might have been better to have this piece come out as a single, separate instance to celebrate Frieren‘s return. I probably say this a lot over here, but very few things get me excited in the same capacity as Frieren, and I hope I was able to make at least a tiny bit of its greatness transpire through my words. Hopefully, throughout the next few weeks, I’ll manage to find the time and words to once again write about the chronicles of my favorite silly elf. Until then…
“Consistency” certainly isn’t the most fitting word to describe my production on this blog. That’s especially true for this series of posts aimed at breaking down the direction and visual presentation of some of the shows I watch on a weekly basis. Starting with the fact that (as alluded to in my previous post) I finally decided to change its name to “Direction Notes”, just a little over a year since I started writing these pieces, and just a little under a year since I began calling them “Episode Notes”. But this sort of rebranding happens all the time, doesn’t it? What’s far more important is that it’s been roughly 9 months since I published my last write-up about Shoushimin Series, specifically, about episodes #3 and #4. Believe me when I say that I still have all the notes, timestamps and screen-caps I took of (almost) every remaining episodes of the first cour, but for one reason or another, I ultimately never got around to putting them together into actual posts.
Fortunately, the episode that came out last Saturday, 6 weeks since the second cour started airing back in April, felt so strong and cathartic that I believe it’s the perfect opportunity to get back on track with this series, momentarily glossing over the episodes I skipped (in the hope I’ll manage to address them sometime in the future), and spending a few words directly on Episode #16, “Midsummer Night” —the climax of The Autumn-Exclusive Kuri Kinton Case Arc.
Before I start, I’d like to point out that, as usual, I won’t be covering or analyzing the content and themes at play in the episode; there’s who already has very skillfully written at length about those aspects, far more insightfully than I ever could. Instead, what I’ll be doing is focusing primarily on the directorial aspects of the episode, the mise-en-scène and visual arrangement that brilliantly framed Honobu Yonezawa‘s story and brought to our screens all the intensity permeating through its climax.
Frame 1
The first impression I got from the very first scene of the episode was how dark everything looked, or rather, how stark the contrast between the background and the lit-up elements felt. To put it yet another way, the emphasis on lighting is something the episode outlines and insists on from the very first shot we’re presented with.
Light, especially its color, and even more-so its source, is indeed the main visual theme throughout the entire runtime of the episode, playing a central role in more than just one way. What this suggests, on a broader outlook on the approach this episode takes on the mandatory taste of visual storytelling ever-present in this show, is a strong focus on crafting the perfect ambience to keep the viewer engaged, almost luring us in, allowing its subtleties to be conveyed in a more passive and engulfing way.
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After the brief introduction featuring a conversation as important as it is short between Kobato and Kengo, we’re welcomed by an alarming yet somewhat comfortingly beautiful red palette. This serves as the stage for a highly anticipated reunion: the one of Kobato and Osanai —the fox and the wolf— and what better setting than the warm light of a raging fire, set by the unidentified serial arsonist on the loose? Yet, despite the unnerving tone of situation and the imminent threat of some fuel tanks potentially catching on fire and exploding (the framing of which doesn’t fail to subtly embed a sense of powerlessness and tease another visual theme that’ll play a major role later in the episode), the sequence is filled with an inexplicable feeling of delight and lightheartedness, if anything, remarking once and for all that there’s absolutely nothing ordinary about our main duo and their relationship.
Much like a moth lured in by lightbulbs, with all his vehemence Urino reaches Kobato and Osanai following the light from the fire, and after a very brief and inconclusive confrontation, our inexperienced make-believe detective runs after the fleeting Osanai—one could say, majestically falling for her trap.
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The location changes to an eerie public park, lit-up only by the dim light of a streetlamp enveloping everything in a poignant and ominous green tint. As Frames5 to 7 suggest, that of confinement is the main visual theme of this next sequence; Urino, having been successfully lured into the wolf’s den, is as far as he can possibly be from a position of control, despite him supposedly being the one who cornered the culprit.
This idea of Urino being the one who’s actually trapped is rendered very explicitly, with the foreground layer literally depicting a stretch of imposing fences, trapping him from many different angles. At the same time, the same concept is also conveyed in a more intrinsic way, via a very telling use of spacing within the frame, paired with a focal shift effect at the end, leaving him little to no room to breathe.
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If it wasn’t already clear enough, another deliberate choice that establishes Osanai‘s presence as the one in control of the situation, is the very physical detail that she, until the end of their confrontation, is always positioned aboveUrino, the latter forced to constantly raise his gaze in order to meet hers, who’s always looking downwards. Furthermore, Osanai is the only one that gets to move around freely in this environment, while Urino stands still in the same spot almost all the time —after all, it’s her den, not his.
In another unconcealed symbolism, the direction cleverly indulges in a particular framing of the lamp, shot from below much like Osanai during the entire sequence, where increasingly many bugs are lured in by the lightbulb. The cold and dim light emanated from the lamp serves as an obvious metaphor for our small (in size, but certainly not in ego) girl and her pale warmth towards the School Newspaper Club President, while the moths represent of course Urino, and his mis-directed deductions. As clouds partially obscure the moon, lost but confident in the middle of the night, he ends up clinging to an artificial and contrived source of light, unable to see —let alone reach— the far away truth his own ambitions set out to unveil.
Frame 10
Even in the confidence of his flashbacks, the framing leaves no room for doubts in conveying Urino‘s flawed approach. His impulsive and overzealous personality isn’t exactly fit for the role he appointed himself to play, as neither back then nor now his figure is able to break out of the very narrow perspective, outlined by the window’s frame, that he confined himself into by failing to even consider taking a broader look at the situation before drawing the conclusions.
I haven’t mentioned it yet, but an unnerving feeling of tension unsurprisingly lingers throughout the whole sequence, which lasts for about 3/4 of the entire 23 minutes runtime of the episode. Contributing in making this sensation feel even more palpable, is a subtle matter of rhythm. While Urino and Osanai are having their conversation, the former’s lines are often visually cut in half; in other words, the camera erratically changes position or angle while he still isn’t done talking. It’s jarring, deliberately so, since it’s something that rarely happens under normal circumstances. Here though, it’s a very tastefully employed trick to make his assertions feel questionable and hesitant before he’s even given the chance to fully articulate them.
Speaking of dialogues, I cannot fail to mention the incredible performance by Hina Youmiya, Osanai‘s voice actress, reaffirming hers as one of the best castings in recent times. Her whispery tone seems to come directly from the character’s lips, precisely controlling the many emotions she’s feeling during the sequence, whether it’s fervid excitement, utter disappointment, or both.
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In the final phase of the episode, when Osanai reveals the last and definitive piece of the puzzle to the poor Urino, the camera trembles like it never did before; his self-confidence shatters and the lingering feeling of uneasiness coalesces in a cathartic sense of impotence. The visual verticality of the scene is once again crucial to its presentation, as Urino raises his gaze even higher, and finally gets a proper, humiliating glance at the moon, which too is looking down at him, now clear of any obstacle.
Defeated, the ill-fated prey runs away, while Osanai is juxtaposed with the very same streetlamp from before —this time, with no bugs flying around its light anymore. Emerging from the depth of the wolf’s den, there’s Kobato, who naturally finds himself at home there, and has been patiently waiting for this sophisticated hunt to reach its end.
In all honesty, as soon as this second cour of Shoushimin Series started airing I was already sure I would end up writing at least one blogpost about it. It’s been quite a while now, so whether or not this short piece meets the quality standards of my previous posts on the show, I leave up to you to decide. Nonetheless, I hope I was able to provide some interesting insights on this shows’ ever so resourceful direction, that you may (or may not) have missed while watching through the episode. I had a lot of fun putting this write-up together today, but I don’t plan on making a return to a regular publishing schedule any time soon. That being said, if the opportunity arises again for another sporadic post like this one, I might find myself back at the keyboard sooner than expected…
It’s been quite some time since I last wrote at length about anime on this blog, my last post being the one onCardcaptor Sakura from last November —a staggering 5 months ago— and to be honest, calling that post “writing at length” seems a bit like cheating, considering all it was is ultimately just a refined and remastered version of a bunch of jumbled Twitter threads. This brings us back even further to August 2024, when I published the last, to date, episode of the Episode Notes series (seriously, I should consider doing some radical rebranding here), talking about Shoushimin‘s direction.
But with the current Spring Season having shaped up pretty nicely by now, my writing power seems to be back in shape as well, as one show in particular has been piquing my interest ever since before it even started airing. No, I’m not talking about the second cour of Shoushimin —which by the way, contrary to no one’s expectations it’s been just as incredible as the first one— nor am I talking about the second season of another anime that’s been featured on this blog before, Kusuriya no Hitorigoto. The show that I’m currently finding myself to be attracted to the most this season is a seemingly unknown and overlooked (here in the West, at least) project by Geno Studio, Your Forma.
Directed by Takaharu Ozaki (who’s been recently interviewed about this very series), Your Forma is an anime adaptation of a currently releasing Sci-Fi Drama light novel, but you’re not here for formalities, so let me get straight to the point: why do I find this show interesting? Answering this question requires at least a little flashback, so bear with me for a little more.
As you may or may not know, I’ve been in Japan for three months starting last January, so I left just in time to see the blooming of the cherry blossoms, and more importantly an insane amount of marketing and advertising all around Tokyo for the shows that were going to air this season, like, you guessed it, Your Forma. The first time I saw the PV was, I believe, in Shinjuku, and despite having never heard of it before, I got immediately hooked by its visuals and style, to me very reminiscent of the imagery from Ghost in the Shell.
Flash-forward to today, four episodes have come out and while it’s by no means a “sakuga show” nor something as directionally idiosyncratic as Shoushimin might be, the visual identity it managed to build up since its premiere is nothing short of impressive.
Starting with the holographic user interface the character view directly through their eyes, it’s clear that much work went into its design, both statically and dynamically as the many windows and pop-ups feature personalized animations and styles for each character. Enhanced by a spot-on sound design, that places the digital assistant’s voice uncomfortably too far back in the head, the way these interfaces are portrayed feels realistically invasive and obnoxious, with the POV cuts strengthening our compassion and bond with the characters right off the bat. As it’ll become more relevant later on, emphasizing the human aspect of this story, rather than the Sci-Fi one, is indeed a deliberate choice by Director Ozaki, as he himself has stated multiple times in the interview mentioned earlier.
Before shifting the focus over to that however, I want to at least mention the Brain Diving sequence. Akin to the transformation scene of a magical girl, it’s shown every time our female lead electronic investigator Echika Hieda performs the so-called “Brain Dive”, a procedure that, through the use of special cable, lets her connect and dive into the brain of the victims, in order to find clues about the crimes she and her robotic partner Harold are in charge of investigating.
The imagery showcased throughout this sequence (again, accompanied by a perfectly matching sound design) evokes dissonant and eerie feelings —slightly stepping into body horror territory, with that weirdly uncomfortable depiction of three Echikas engraved into the surface of a brain— and the mixing of different techniques, palettes, and compositing filters really drives the point home that brain diving isn’t exactly for everyone, and more importantly, contributes greatly in defining the visual language of the show as a whole.
Another seemingly small but actually very significant detail, that plays a big role in shaping up the visual identity of an anime, is definitely its typography. Take Eva‘s title cards for example, no matter what context you see that font it in, it’s become iconic to a point you’ll always instinctively be reminded of the series. Nowadays, it’s not that uncommon for TV anime to have stylized and dedicated title cards, but it isn’t exactly common either, at least not in the same fashion as in Your Forma.
When the first episode’s title card popped up on the screen, it left me completely stunned; the fonts, colors, layout, compositing, background animations and sound effects are all perfectly designed and perfectly executed, working in seamless sync with one another to make the handful of seconds that the title card is shown on the screen absolutely memorable. It’s like a declaration of intent, concise yet comprehensive, condensing all of the show’s visual identity in a brief, fleeting image. For a moment, I thought I clicked on the wrong episode and somehow ended up watching something from the 2000s era.
Deep down, as soon as I saw that title card, I knew this show would be the catalyst that would get me back into writing after so many months of break.
I have to admit that one of the reasons this show has me so hooked lies in its writing; more than one perhaps, as I’m very interested, academically and professionally so, in the topics of AI and its interpersonal and ethical impact on society. Focusing on the writing is not what this blog is inherently for, but nonetheless I’d like to briefly talk about it for this show.
As Director Takaharu Ozaki explained, while it’s still undeniably science fiction, the world of Your Forma feels very familiar and contemporary. I strongly agree with this sentiment, since the “fiction” aspect of Your Forma‘s science lies mostly in its shape rather than its technology. This is to say, with the continuous release of better and better (on the surface, at least) large language models, an AI assistant capable of manipulating language in a way it seriously gives off the impression of thinking like a real human being has already become a reality in our very world. Your Forma is clearly not the first show to tackle these thematics, far from it, but “gives off the impression” are the keywords here. Since the very first episode, I’ve found Your Forma‘s take on the “will AI ever become human?” dilemma to be very grounded and nuanced, especially in comparison with the general superficiality this topic is usually treated with in Sci-Fi-like settings. If anything, the characters’ stances on (in-universe) AI developments feel very informed, repeatedly remarking how Amicus (the AI-powered humanoid assistants like Harold) are just “making it look like they’re thinking” but deep down really aren’t, or how “it’s not that easy to replicate a human” since “things that resemble humans don’t necessarily become similar to them on a fundamental level”.
This kind of concepts being at the very core of the drama Your Forma aims to depict, makes its narrative feel grounded and relevant, because it finally tackles the same issues we’re dealing with with today’s AI models, in a way that doesn’t neglect their currently well-known and researched technical limitations. It builds its foundations on top of a more informed outlook on today’s technology, resulting in an even more engaging discussion on an already hot topic. This gives further, non-trivial relevance to the characters’ dialogues and internal struggles in relation to the societal issue they’re facing, making the human drama side of the story stand out significantly more.
And it’s exactly this focus on the human aspect that narratively shined the brightest throughout the first four episodes. Again, it’s not surprising at all, given the Director’s own words on it:
What I really wanted to portray through this work is ultimately the “connection between people”.
This focus on the characters is not just related to the writing though, as the direction cleverly indulges on shots that aim specifically at conveying the thoughts and emotions the characters are feeling before they even get the chance to state them themselves. This attention to the layouts is especially clear in the first episode, when Echika is shown to be conflicted about her own perception of her partner Harold, after learning another Amicus of the same model as his was found guilty of assaulting a human. The very spacious yet asphyxiating layouts, isolating the investigator from the people around her, yet completely surrounding her with elements smacked onto the foreground, give a very clear outlook on her reflective and introverted personality, voluntarily trapping herself in the maze of her own intricate thoughts.
Another clever use of framing and space can be found again in episode 1, when Echika‘s taking part in an augmented-reality meeting with the International AI Ethics Committee. As expected, the discussion forces her to face her doubts again, and the clear difference between the narrow and confined layouts when the other participants’s holograms are “visible” to the camera, and the wide-open shots of her sitting alone in the physically empty meeting room, precisely convey what’s going on in Echika‘s mind without the need for any additional word. The positioning of the camera is also pretty functional; while the committee members are actively discussing the matters, the camera stays low and neutral, shooting them directly from the front. But as the focus moves on Echika‘s thoughts, the camera is suddenly watching from above, making the already dense atmosphere inside the dimly lit room feel even more oppressive and suffocating.
Purposeful layouts aren’t the only approach to visual storytelling though, and a very clever (yet straightforward) scene in episode 4 makes instead use of the character’s movement to spice up the nuance of Echika‘s actions.
The repetition of misunderstandings and reunification between the core cast, Echika and Harold, is an established theme of the show. Closing the first arc of the story, there’s a scene where the investigator decides to forgive her assistant after a fundamental mismatch in approach they had early on, and in the act of doing so, she physically steps out of the darkness engulfing her, to reach out to the light shining all around her partner. This contrast of lights and shadows is a very rudimental visual tool, as effective as it is straightforward, and combined with Echika‘s act of stepping out of the shadow of her own volition, it strengthens the idea that she’s actively making an effort to understand Harold‘s mind, and willingly work on her relationship with him.
The palpable sense of rhythm throughout the sequence, slowing down with the final pan-up, makes the viewer not only more invested in the scene per se, but also aware of the positive tension between the two characters, resulting in a satisfying and well-earned conclusion to this first chapter of their relationship.
Another highlight of the fourth episode was certainly the very voluminous and warm character acting. Even if it’s not consistent throughout the 23-minute runtime, I found these cuts by animator Takaya Sunagawa to be a really nice finishing touch, the cherry on top of an already very convincing and engaging sequence. The last cut of the episode too, again animated by Sunagawa (whose involvement in the project isn’t all that surprising given the presence of his close friend Shunji Akasaka as the sub-character designer) takes on a more abstract note, reinforcing once again the unanimous direction Echika and Harold‘s relationship is going to take from this moment onwards.
Talking about engaging character acting, nothing beats an ending sequence featuring the characters singing along with the singer, and Your Forma‘s ending does exactly that. A choice that, if it wasn’t clear enough already, seems to further reaffirm the human aspect of the story as central, giving its characters a familiar human dimension even outside of the narrative itself.
It’s this attention to details that can make an overall average production like Your Forma stand out between many others, and if it also happens to be backed up by a strong and firm vision like Ozaki‘s, the stage is set to create something truly valuable and well worth spending a few words about.
In a season filled with so many high-profile titles like this spring, I certainly didn’t expect a relatively under-the-radar production to be the one I’d end up rambling about on here, let alone it being the main focus of my first post in months. That being said, I’m glad I managed to find the time to write this piece all in one go, and I’m also really glad I was able to address all the points I planned on tackling, even though my writing skills have gotten pretty rusty to say the least. I’m not sure whether I’ll come back to this show in the future, or when the next Episode Notes post will come out, but nevertheless, I hope this somewhat organized stream of consciousness was able to pique your interest even just a tiny bit, and as always, I’m really grateful for your time. Until next time…
During my journey exploring the various attractions Kyoto has to offer to its many tourists, I visited the Kyoto International Manga Museum, arguably one of the most significant efforts in manga preservation throughout the entire country; out of professional habit, I especially enjoyed the anime section—despite the facility being a manga museum first and foremost—which offers not only great insights on the anime production pipeline, via some neat schemes and graphs that thoroughly describe the entire process, but also a few volumes worth of genga, layouts and corrections (along with the corresponding timesheets) from Production I.G’s 2012 short movie Wasurenagumo (わすれなぐも, Li’l Spider Girl) you can browse through while watching the cuts they cover play step by step throughout the production process, from their storyboard-form to shiage.
Here is one of the aforementioned “neat graphs” displayed at the Kyoto International Manga Museum, visualizing each single step of the anime production pipeline in a vertical timeline, ordered from Pre-Production (プリプロ) to Production (プロダクション) to Post-Production (ポスプロ), giving a clear idea of the sequentiality of the process while also introducing its many intricate and convoluted building blocks.
Anyhow, after spending more than an hour in the anime room alone, on my way out of the museum I spotted a poster that read: Seika ArchiveD, the organization that aims at digitally archiving animation material, will showcase its recent results in an exhibition of genga data and materials from Studio Ponoc’s 2017 movie “Mary and the Witch’s Flower” on February 23rd at the Tsuki no Niwa Gallery in Keihanna Commemorative Park.
Needless to say, I went to the exhibition and spent there my entire Sunday afternoon, and I want to take this opportunity to write not only about my experience there, but also about Seika ArchiveD; what they do, how they do it, and why it matters.
Seika ArchiveD
Seika Anime・Archive・Digitalize, ArchiveD for short, where the capital A stands for “Anime” and “Analog” and the capital D stands for “Data” and “Digitalize“, is—borrowing the words directly from their official website—an industry-academia-government collaboration between Onebilling Inc., Kyoto Seika University and Seika Town, with the goal to digitalize the important intermediate deliverables that anime production materials (timesheets, layouts and key frames) represent, into high resolution data through the use of a digital camera, and then utilize this data for eduction, research or commercialization purposes.
Their home-page also highlights how this is the first instance of an anime-archiving initiative led by a local-government institution (Seika Town, in this case), as well as the first time a digitalization mechanism relying on a digital cameraーas opposed to a regular scannerーis being deployed in the context of anime material digitalization.
The above graph illustrates the working process at Seika ArchiveD: cut-packs (カット袋, folders containing the aforementioned production materials for each cut of animation from a particular project) are delivered directly to them; the materials are then carefully extracted from the folders, photographed with the digital camera, and thoroughly catalogued via software one after the other. Once the digitalization process is complete, the cut-packs are repackaged and sent back to the original animation studio or entity they belong to. The high resolution data is ultimately used for a variety of purposes, including education and exhibitions—like the one I had the pleasure to visit yesterday—further academic research or business analysis, and also commercialization through art books or anime records collections, or, notably, digital key-frame collections like the popular E-SAKUGA, which you may have already heard of, or even got a copy of yourself, and which also happens to be an initiative backed by the same Onebilling Inc. mentioned earlier.
One thing you may be wondering is, why using a digital camera instead of a regular scanner? Well, thankfully, the exhibition’s booklet provides a very straightforward answer to that question, and the reason might be much more practical than you think. The amount of drawings produced in the process of creating anime is, unsurprisingly, veryhuge, averaging at around 5000 sheets per episode (according to the data directly from the booklet). Multiply that for 13 episodes, and you get to a staggering 65000 drawings per TV anime cour. Using a scanner to digitalize all those drawings might sound pretty reasonable at first, so much so that it’s in fact the norm when it comes to anime digitalization as things stand now, but as Seika ArchiveD points out in the booklet, scanning anime drawings takes effort and precision, as the scanner’s lid needs to be pressed relatively hard to avoid shadows and wrinkles of the paper being captured in the final image. On the other hand, with their special digital camera setup, the time it takes for a single drawing to be digitalized is significantly reduced; and not only that, but it’s also substantially easier and quicker to produces higher quality image files as well, capturing the many pencil strokes in much better detail than a regular scanner could possibly achieve.
A picture showing Seika ArchiveD’s digitalization setup from the Mary and The Witch’s Flower exhibition
To make all this actually possible though, their digital camera is set up in a special way, aimed at optimizing the speed and precision of the digitalization process. At yesterday’s exhibition, they showed a neat recording of this special setup in-action: the camera is placed on a stand facing downwards, where a bunch of properly adjusted lights shine on a glass panel, under which the drawing—whether it’s a key-frame, a layout or a timesheet—is placed, tightly pressed down to avoid any distortions in the final image. On the monitor right next to it, the operator can see real-time footage from the camera, and dedicated software plots perpendicular guidelines over the image to help adjusting the drawing’s position in the frame. With just a click, the picture is quickly saved, and after typing in the necessary details, the drawing is fully digitalized and archived in a matter of minutes.
Iterating through this simple process over and over for countless times is what lead to the creation of a massive library of digitalized production materials, like the ones from Studio Ponoc’s Mary and the Witch’s Flower showcased in yesterday’s exhibitions at Seika Town’s Keihanna Park.
The Mary and the Witch’s Flower Exhibition
There isn’t much I can actually show you in this section, since, as obvious as it sounds, cameras were strictly prohibited inside the exhibition room. So, instead, I’ll do my best to describe and explain what I was able to see and experience in there.
The Tsuki no Niwa Gallery is a small space located inside of the Keihanna Commemorative Park in Seika Town, south of Kyoto City; yesterday, the entire room was used to host the Animation Material Exhibition, showcasing the results of ArchiveD’s efforts to digitalize timesheets, layout, key & in-between frames from Studio Ponoc’s 2017 anime movie, Mary and the Witch’s Flower (メアリと魔女の花).
Aside from a few physical layouts and genga displayed in a glass case at the center of the room, the gallery was equipped with a dozen of tablets, each containing the digitalized drawings—timesheets, layout, keyframes and in-betweens—from a different cut of the movie, for a total of well over a thousand distinct materials from the film. The interactiveness of the setup was the main attraction of the exhibition: you could browse through each of the displayed cuts by interacting with the corresponding tablet, swiping through each key-frame or quickly scrolling through the sequence by rapidly tapping on the screen; you could even pinch and zoom-in on each drawing to appreciate the incredible level of detail the camera-captured image had to offer—as they claim in the booklet, you could really feel the bump in resolution and overall clarity of the picture compared to a regularly scanned image.
The experience was really fun, and the amount of data they were able to archive was nothing short of impressive. What (positively) surprised me the most though, was the number of people who attended the exhibition; granted, the sunny weather on a Sunday afternoon, the fact that it was held in the city’s largest park, and the complete lack of an entrance fee, all definitely played a role in its success, especially considering many of the visitors I saw during the few hours I spent at the exhibition (and at the nearby café while writing this post) were families with little kids, likely attracted by the movie’s title more than anything else. However, a consistent portion of the attendees—spanning across all demographics—was really, really invested in the exhibited materials, reading with visible interest through the explanations on the various steps of the anime production pipeline hung on the walls throughout the room, or thoroughly browsing the countless key-frames and layouts at display, appreciating all their details and intricacies (I believe the strong interactive element of the tablet-setup really helped in making the material feel more fascinating and intriguing to engage with). And if this is sounding like it’s no big deal, since, well, we’re in Japan, the land of anime, of course the locals would be more interested in stuff like this, you may be correct in assuming as much, but I believe that’s only part of the truth here. Anime as a medium (as well as its aesthetics in general) is deeply rooted in the cultural and social context of Japan, to the point literally everything can be intertwined with it—and believe me when I say this, you’ll see anime everywhere here, from train station stamps and mascots, to life-size anime-miko cardboard cutouts at shrines… That is one thing, but being interested and invested in the creation and production of the craft is an entirely different story, and even more so is appreciating the considerable effort put into archiving and preserving the material that comes out of such creative process—the “valuable intermediate deliverable”, as ArchiveD refer to it on their home-page—especially here in Japan, where the idea of preserving analog media has only recently begun to gain traction, with Seika ArchiveD standing as one of the very few contributors when it comes to archiving production material related to anime.
The bottomline is, events and exhibitions like yesterday’s, raising the interest and engagement of the general public towards the more niche aspects of anime production, that may still be broadly perceived as aimed specifically at the enthusiasts of the field, are truly remarkable, and certainly a step in the right direction for analog media preservation as a whole. Moreover, seeing industrial and government-backed initiatives like Seika ArchiveD successfully garner such interest as the result of their hard work, truly felt like the cherry on top of this collaborative and steadily growing effort.
This concludes my little report on yesterdays’s peculiar event. I hope the content of this piece—quite unusual for the standards of this blog, I know—was able to pique your interest nonetheless, and maybe bring to your attention the current state and recent advancements of cultural preservation here in the Land of the Rising Sun, that you may not have been aware of.
I won’t deny that this article is, in a way, an experiment on my end as well, so I apologize if the exposition feels somewhat messy or yet unpolished. That being said, I have to admit I had a lot of fun writing this piece, and I truly hope the opportunity to further explore this format will present itself again in the future. Until then…
In the past few weeks I’ve been making my way through the 1998 anime series Cardcaptor Sakura, which I know very well needs no introduction. I initially meant it as nothing more than a “personal” watch, just a show I wanted to watch for myself and by myself, without necessarily writing anything about it. Well, that original intention lasted for a whopping 16 episodes out of the total 70, when the storyboard and direction for episode 16, “Sakura and the Rainbow of Memories“, completely caught me off guard with their nuanced and expressive visual approach. That alone was already enough to ignite my writing fuels, but as the credits started rolling and his name popped up, I totally couldn’t help but put together a (somewhat messy) thread about it on Twitter. The person I’m referring to is, of course, director Mamoru Kanbe (神戸 守), whose name should sound very familiar to those who have comeacrossthis blog in the past few months.
To my surpriseーwhich was mostly due to my bad habit of never doing my research before watching something newー I learned that he was involved in multiple episodes of Sakura as the storyboard artist and episode director. Throughout my watch, I ended up writing and posting a handful of threads on the (then) bird app about some of the episodes directed and boarded by Kanbe, as well as an artist whose name was new to me, Shigehito Takayanagi (高柳 滋仁). My intention with this post, then, is to compile all of those rather short write-ups into a single, more substantial and consistent piece, along the lines of my “Episode Notes” series of posts. The primary focus will be the storyboard and direction of each episode, all in the hope of providing some interesting insights on the techniques used to achieve the distinctively captivating visual presentation at play.
Episode 16 – さくらと思い出の虹: Sakura and the Rainbow of Memories
絵コンテ・演出: 神戸 守|SB/ED: Mamoru Kanbe
As hinted at before, episode 16 was the first one to actually make me invested in its visual language beyond the pure personal enjoyment I started watching the series for. Despite not being the first episode of the show directed and storyboarded by Mamoru Kanbe ーhe worked on episodes 5, 9 and 12 before this oneー it definitely was the first one where I recognized his style and approach, or to better put it, the first episode whose visual presentation really grabbed my attention to the point that finding out Kanbe was the man behind it didn’t feel all that surprising.
I absolutely love it when anime (and visual media in general) make purposeful use of their many visual elements to subtly embed meaning into their shots and frames, effectively realizing their full expressive potential. This kind of approach to tell purely on a visual basis enhances the viewer’s experience from something passive to an active engagement, and Kanbe has proven to be truly a master of this style.
In Cardcaptor Sakura episode 16, elements like the reflections on mirrors and glossy surfaces hint at “reality” parallel to the one being presented through the dialogues and script, providing many visual cues throughout its runtime regarding a certain existing connection between Sakura and the seemingly unrelated vacation house she’s visiting every day. The deliberate placement and focus on Nadeshiko, Sakura‘s mother’s portrait photo, also plays an important role in suggesting the context behind this connection; as ultimately unveiled at the end of the episode, the house was in fact deeply connected to Sakura, belonging to Nadeshiko‘s grandfather, her great-grandfather she’d never met before.
Another element that feels very familiar, especially coming from Kanbe‘s work on Shoushimin Series, is the expressive use of framing and foreground smacking to envelop the characters within the environment around them. In this case, Sakura being enclosed by the terrace’s fences suggests a stronger significance being attributed to her presence at the vacation house, as though the location inherently suits her despite this being her first visit to the place. Additionally, this also serves as a device to place further emphasis on the importance of the setting within the episode’s narrative.
It was quite the welcome surprise to learn that this suite of techniques has long been an integral part of Mamoru Kanbe‘s style and repertoire since the early days of his directorial career ーa discovery I certainly didn’t expect to make thanks to my clueless first watch of Cardcaptor Sakura.
The next episode to have caught my attention was episode 33, featuring once again Mamoru Kanbe in the director’s seat. This episode as well is filled with the same familiar visual quirks already presented in the previous section, this time carefully adapted to fit the context and narrative of the new self-contained story.
The icy setting, highlighted since the very first few sequences, allowed for an extensive and substantial use of reflections as the main visual theme of the episode throughout its 25-minutes runtime, primarily in Part B. As it’s common in Kanbe‘s episodes though, the story’s key elements are briefly and subtly introduced at the very beginning, and only later developed upon as the story progresses. Visual elements are not exception to this: one of the first things to meet our eyes as the episode starts is in fact Li‘s reflection on the ice slate outside of the school’s gate.
Unlike with episode 16, this time there isn’t much hinted meaning or subtle nuance attributed to use of reflections ーrather, they’re simply utilized as a recurring visual theme that also plays a significant role in the action choreography.
I also couldn’t help but notice (and appreciate) the peculiar and distinctive shot compositions deployed all throughout the episode; whether it’s the juxtaposition of the characters’ cels with the foreground or the background elements, or the unusual and, to some degree, eccentric camera angles that make the scenes so eye-catching, they always really stand out to me and in Cardcaptor Sakura‘s case somewhat gave away Kanbe‘s involvement in the episode even before I could read his name in the credits.
Lastly, there was a shot in particular that I found extremely clever and reminiscent of Kanbe‘s ability to unmistakably convey something to the audience without using a single line of dialogue. Without the need for words, this seemingly unremarkable cut in the beginning phases of the episode clearly foreshadows how Kero-chan won’t play any role in helping Sakura out this time, by physically dividing the two with the window’s glass and using a high camera angle to further increase the distance between them.
It’s subtle details like this that have the biggest impact on how the presentation of an episode is perceived, making even the simplest scenes not only more visually compelling to the viewer but also properly meaningful and worth paying active attention to.
Episode 37 – さくらと消えた知世の声: Sakura and Tomoyo’s Lost Voice
絵コンテ・演出: 神戸 守|SB/ED: Mamoru Kanbe
Episode 37, which is the first one directed and boarded by MamoruKanbe in the second half of the show, features a familiar yet experimental-feeling approach that introduces some new interesting photography techniques in its vocabulary.
As already hinted at before, it’s customary in Kanbe‘s episodes to have the opening sequence serving as a container for the whole episode, introducing the key elements to both the episode’s “mystery” and visual approach. In this instance, the sakura tree as the former and the shift in camera focus as the latter.
One of the “experimental” photography quirks I mentioned in the first paragraph is indeed the focus pull, here used to create a sense of anticipation in the scenes. While it’s nothing truly remarkable on its own, the extensive use of this visual effect throughout the episode is a declaration of intents on Kanbe‘s part, audibly hinting at his will to experiment with this trope for this episode’s direction, resulting in a very fresh-feeling presentation.
The vignette is the other yet unexplored photography effect that plays a prominent role in this episode’s visual language. Creating a stark contrast in lighting between different zones of the frames is a trick deployed to highlight and remark the ominous and oppressive atmosphere of the many scenes it’s featured in, especially when used in combination with uniform and continuous camera movements such as horizontal pannings.
As expected in a MamoruKanbe directed episode, the layouts and camera angles do a particularly great job at isolating the characters in the frames, a job especially important in an immersion-focused episode such as this one, where even the minimal use of the soundtracks is designed to maximize the eeriness of the scenes.
Another extremely familiar technique in Kanbe‘s repertoire, that was also prominently featured in the recent work of his I mentioned at the beginning of this article, Shoushimin Series, and that I’m always looking out for when watching episodes or shows with his name in the credits, is visually grouping the characters via a clever positioning of their cels in relation to the background or foreground elements, implying a remarked sense of distinction and separation between them. Needless to say, Cardcaptor Sakura episode 37 excels at this, using elements like fences and window frames in the background to partition the shots into smaller portions, each assigned to a particular character, or group thereof, to logically divide or separate them.
Episode 40 – さくらと夢の中のさくら: Sakura and the Sakura from the Dream
絵コンテ・演出: 高柳 滋仁|SB/ED: Shigehito Takayanagi
As Mamoru Kanbe‘s presence in the production of this show grew less and less frequent to then completely disappear by the time the Sakura Card story arc entered its initial phases, another director by the name of Shigehito Takayanagi caught my attention thanks to his methodical approach to direction, full of precise and distinct recurring traits. Episode 40, the first one being directed and boarder by Takayangi, has surely left a long lasting impression on me to the point I feel confident in saying it’s distinctly one of my favorites in the entire series.
The episode revolved around the concepts of dreams and omens, and was certainly backed up by a strong vision paired with an outstanding execution. While it was great all throughout, coming after a whole first half worth of set up, B Part in particular stood out to me in its stunningly oneiric presentation of Sakura‘s dream sequence, one of the best I’ve seen in recent memory. The second half of the episode was almost entirely shot using dutch angles, in such a tasteful way that didn’t end up feeling overwhelming or forced at all. As we’ll see in the next episode too, this methodical use of well-established filming techniques is core to Takayanagi‘s style and directorial language ーthe textbook use of dutch angles being the most evident and noticeable one.
During this sequence, the thorough sound design played its part too, mainly featuring high-pitched and dissonant tones to remarked the ever increasing tension throughout the scenes.
The setting too greatly contributed in depicting the eeriness of the whole sequence; the transparent glass doors and walls allowed for the extremely bright and indeterminate backgrounds to shine through, reinforcing the dreamlike and otherworldly appearance of the location, almost as if they were trapping Sakura and the others in a place completely detached from reality.
Another visual element I especially liked was the use of negative space towards the end of the sequence, isolating Sakura in the frames and effectively “erasing” the space around her with a very deliberate palette choice, featuring black as its the predominant color, in complete contrast with the previous scenes. This choice not only enhances the presentation of the sequence but also carries a narrative meaning, since the space around Sakura starts blacking out as she slowly realizes she’s being held captive inside of a dream.
Playing around with perspectives was one last trick deployed in the final moments of the episode in order to effectively upgrade the “space”‘s role to a proactive one in the visuals, also featuring some pretty ambitious rotation cuts as well.
This exhaustive control over every aspect of the visuals ーeach element being carefully designed to specificallyfulfill the task of conveying a distinct set of emotionsー served as a great presentation of Shigehito Takayanagi‘s qualities as a director, unmistakably outlining his distinctly holistic and systematic approach.
Episode 57 – さくらと小狼とエレベーター: Sakura, Syaoran, and the Elevator
絵コンテ・演出: 高柳 滋仁|SB/ED: Shigehito Takayanagi
The last episode on this list is episode 57, this time too unsurprisingly crafted by the meticulous hand of Shigehito Takayanagi. If Mamoru Kanbe was the director whose endeavors grabbed my attention the most throughout the first half of the show, Takayanagi definitely became the standout in the second half, to the point I could effortlessly infer his involvement midway through the episodes. It doesn’t boil down to particularly effective observation skills on my part, though; rather, I’d say it was all mostly thanks to the very distinctive and recognizable approach on his end.
What caught my eye first in this episode was the very simple and straightforward yet effective visual symbolisms at play during the teddy-bear-eventmontage in B Part, focusing on Syaoran‘s acceptance of his feelings for Sakura. Dry leaves are obviously the main visual theme of the whole sequence, but while Syaoran is always framed within or in relation to a plain, “regular” leaf, Sakura is instead represented by a more unique-looking and distinctively pretty Ginkgo leaf, strongly suggesting how she is the one who stands out in his eyes.
These by-the-book tricks Takayanagi deploys throughout his episodes, as hinted at earlier, are an integral part that defines his style. What makes them stand out is the designed effectiveness they gain under Takayanagi‘s comprehensive direction; even the more straightforward techniques like these can result in a strong and compelling presentation if realized with the due attention to details and an exhaustive and careful control over every audio-visual element, like composition, colors, transitions, rhythm, and soundtracks.
In some instances, the image of the “normal” dry leaf overlaps and envelops Li‘s entire figure in the frame, effectively isolating him from the other characters on the screen, perhaps to reinforce how this montage ーwhich, by the way, is not the first one featured in a Takayanagi episodeー is all about his personal feelings towards Sakura.
Using the interactions between the two distinct type of leaves, as they make ripples on the water or as the consecutive images of Sakura make Li‘s last bit of defiance towards the acceptance of his own feelings tremble at the mere sight of them, to describe the concrete interactions between the actual characters during their visit at the event was another really impactful and tender idea, expanding on the otherwise unadorned symbolism.
That of the dry leaves is not a theme introduced only in the second half of the episode though; reminiscent of Kanbe‘s habit, that key element is present since the very beginning, with the fragmented sequence slowly following the brown leaf as it floats on the pond until it reaches Syaoran‘s reflection on the water playing throughout the entirety of A Part.
As the events of the episode unfold and get closer to the end, we are yet again grated with a very extensive and appropriate use of dutch angles, time time as well paired with an appropriate soundtrack choice to unmistakably denote the impending threat of a sinister event. Another of Shigehito Takayanagi‘s methodical touches, once again executed with the utmost care and meticulousness.
As a closing note, I have to say I really enjoyed the commitment to present all of the events in this episode solely from Li‘s POV. Episode 57 was also possibly the first one (or at the very least, the first self-contained story) to not include any sequence of Sakura summoning a card or performing a spell at all.
This concludes our little journey through the episodes of the 90s classic Cardcaptor Sakura, which was really just a compilation ーthough not without a few substantial additions here and thereー of the otherwise unorganized thoughts and write-ups I produced while watching the series for the first time. I hope this piece provided you, dear reader, with some interesting insights on the direction of this timeless show, or at least entertained you throughout your reading. Until next time~
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.
Frame 1Frame 2
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.
Frame 3
Frame 4Frame 5
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 Kobatoimpersonating 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.
Frame 6Frame 7
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 timesfeatured 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.
Frame 1Frame 2Frame 3
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.
Frame 1Frame 2Frame 3
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.
Frame 4Frame 5
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 seriesoflive-actionphotos (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 beautifullycrowdedshopping 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!).
Frame 1Frame 2Frame 3
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.
For quite some time now I’ve had in the back of my mind the idea of a bigger, more substantial project (by my standards, that is), involving both translation work and writing in some capacity. Something that I have access to a large (or perhaps the largest available) amount of content of, and I’m both passionate and decently knowledgable about, would be what possibly is one of the most ambitious entries in a massive and massively influential franchise: the 1988 movie Mobile Suit Gundam: Char’s Counterattack.
I’ve already covered one long interview with director Yoshiyuki Tomino about CCA last year, even before actually getting started with this blog altogether (being one of my earliest translation works when it comes to interviews, it’s definitely not perfect and I should find the time to review it from start to finish someday). My goal with this article is to make use of all the knowledge I put together around this movie, be it through countless rewatches or thorough research, to translate and comment on the various production materials and notes collected in the Mobile Suit Gundam: Char’s Counterattack Complete Collection of Official Records ―BEYOND THE TIME―, specifically the “Making of” chapter, that I hold dear on my Gundam themed shelf.
For the structure of this write-up, I followed the same order in which the production material is arranged in the original book, thus dividing this article in four main sections:Mechanical Design,Character Design, Other Designs and Background Art. Lastly, a short Notes section at the end features the content included in the last few pages of the chapter. The scope of this project is not a broader look at the production of Char’s Counterattack as a whole, but rather a narrower look into very specific parts and aspects of it.
(The production material showcased in this article is only part of what’s included in the book, and not all of it for obvious copyright reasons. However, the comments and notes, or at least the most relevant ones, have all been translated and are directly quoted or integrated in each corresponding section).
Mechanical Design
This section features various drafts of the mechanical design works, along with commentaries by their respective artists, starting with the early drafts by Mamoru Nagano, who was originally appointed as the main mecha designer for the movie, then moving to Yutaka Izubuchi, who took over after Nagano was taken off the project. Additional commentary on the development of the mecha design by producer Kenji Uchida and Sunrise Planning and Viscial Design team members Kouichi Inoue, Nobushiki Tsukada and Shigeru Horiguchi is also featured throughout this section.
My intent is to present all this as one organic sequence, just occasionally quoting the commentaries directly, and instead incorporating them within the reconstruction of the working process. To keep things in order, this section is divided in sub-sections, each dedicated to a specific artist and his respective designs. The reconstruction tries to follow a chronological order based on the information included in the Official RecordsCollection itself, as well as in some other sources that I’ve listed at the end of the article.
Mamoru Nagano
Hi-S Gundam (and the E.F.S.F. Mobile Suits)
In a similar fashion to the original book, this reconstruction starts off with the very first design for the then-called “Hi-S Gundam“, likely named so after the title of a concurrent (at the time) project, the 1987 novel Mobile Suit Gundam High-Streamer, by the initial main mecha designer, Mamoru Nagano.
Nagano‘s involvement with Gundam is a rather intricate one; he originally widely contributed to the designs for Mobile Suit Z Gundam, and then stepped down around the end of 1984, just a few months before the first half of Zeta started to broadcast, likely due to the mixed (internal) reactions his work got, considering the heavily commercial context of TV mecha design of the time. Possibly around the spring of 1985, producer Kenji Uchida reached out to Nagano again, with the intention to bring him back in the production to design the “main robot” for the second half of the show. Consequentially to his return on Zeta, director Yoshiyuki Tomino asked Nagano directly to work as the main mecha designer on Gundam again, this time for the “next entry”, that would later be titled Mobile Suit Gundam ZZ. And so, by November of 1985, Nagano was already working on the rough designs for the ZZ and the new Zeon Mobile Suits, but despite initially getting the green light from the sponsors, he was fired right before the production began in December of the same year. As a result, Nagano distanced himself from Sunrise and Gundam for some time; not too long though, since in late 1986, following a request by (again) Tomino himself, he was already working on the designs for Char’s Counterattack, as reported in the 1996 winter issue of comic Newtype (as further confirmation of this dating, we also have Nagano‘s signature on the design sheets, “Mamoru Nagano 86“). Char’s Counterattack (which was already the tentative title at the time, according to the Official Records Collection) being a movie and not a TV series like Zeta and ZZ were, was convincing enough of a factor for him to return on the franchise once again; as Tomino pointed out in his invitation, “this time around” Nagano supposedly would have had “fewer pressure form the outside” and could have created “the final Gundam as he envisioned and pleased”. Unfortunately, that ended up not being the case that time either, as Nagano was taken off CCA as well (at least as the mecha designer), and Yutaka Izubuchi took his place.
Despite the unfortunate turn of events, Nagano‘s initial design works for CCA are still included in this collection (which indeed reaffirms itself as “Complete“), and specifically this Hi-S Gundam didn’t make its appearance to the public until relatively recently.
Nagano intended to pour his very own design concept and vision into this design for the Hi-SGundam (and for all the other mobile suits as well). Even though it ultimately ended up not being used in CCA, Nagano says he partially brought this same design concept of his over to Five Star Stories, which he was simultaneously working on at the time. An example of this is the design of the GTM Hi Rhiannon, which reused some of the concepts present in this initial version of Hi-S. This sharing of the same concepts and vision between the two works wasn’t just one directional though, as the opposite is true as well; for example, the designs for the Hi-S and the Psycho Doga were in turn influenced by the designs that were supposed to be used for the Mortar Headds in Five Star Stories instead, but given the “importance of the title ‘Gundam’” he was well aware of at the time, Nagano decided to prioritize the mobile suits‘ designs over the ones for his “own personal work”.
On a more technical note, Nagano remarks that the three rough designs on the right (which are dated “87.27.1“, so supposedly after he made the initial Hi-S design) were not solely meant for the Hi-SGundam, but rather as a general concept for all the Federation‘s mobile suits, as he was asked to work on all of them. Those “unfinished concept designs” were in fact later used as the basis for the RGM-89 Jegan, which does indeed look reminiscent of them. “The designs are so vague” he adds, “because [at the time I was working on them] the visual presentation [of the movie] in terms of direction hadn’t been decided yet”. A majority of the times, it was director Tomino himself who asked Nagano directly what was it that he personally wanted to do with the designs (this is to say, Nagano wasn’t pressured with a predetermined vision or some specific requests for the designs at all), and the two of them gradually figured things out together. That was about the same working methodology they’ve adopted ever since Zeta, or perhaps it’s more correct to say Tomino adopted, as Nagano recalls, aside from some minor adjustments or questions on his designs like the RMS-099Rick Dias‘, he ultimately was the one who had the final word on them; director Tomino on the other hand, instead of focusing on the designs themselves, primarily thought of “how he would use them in the storyboards or the scenario”. And the same was true not only for the mechanical designs, but also for Yoshikazu Yasuhiko‘s character designs.
Mamoru Nagano’s Zeta Gundam
Talking about Zeta, Nagano notes how the mobile suit referred to as “Zeta Gundam” in the design sheets (which are dated December 1986) was his own version of the Z, later used in CCA as the basis for the RGZ-91 Re-GZ, and it’s supposedly also the version that is “the true Z Gundam” to director Tomino.
Nagano was also responsible for the initial designs of the Hi-S Gundam‘s cockpit and the Psycommu Helmets. Unfortunately, he doesn’t remember much if anything at all about the cockpit, as he stated he “doesn’t even remember having designed it in the first place”. What he does remember though, is designing the Psycommu Helmets to be “stupidly big”, so that it would have been clear at a glance that the pilot was a newtype. When he submitted this idea, director Tomino responded with a bitter smile and Nagano immediately understood it didn’t appeal to him at all, and felt somewhat frustrated about it.
Nightingale (and the Neo Zeon Mobile Suits)
The other main mobile suitNagano designed in the initial phases of CCA‘s pre-production is the Nightingale (or, the “Naitiengeaile“, as Nagano himself wrote on the design sheet), that initially shared its name with its counterpart in the 1988 Mobile Suit Gundam:Char’s Counterattack –Beltorchika’s Children novel, and later evolved into its final iteration for the movie, the Sazabi. It’s interesting (but also unsurprising to some degree) that the initial tentative names for the two main mobile suits for Amuro and Char were much more akin (if not straight up the same) to the ones that were featured in both the previous and subsequent novelization related to CCA instead. Or, to put it another way, it’s cool to see how for the novel versions, especially Beltorchika’s Children that perhaps could be seen as a more “true to Tomino‘s vision” rendition of CCA, it was decided to feature these original names for the mobile suits in some capacity.
Much like with the Hi-S Gundam, the design concept for the Nightingale influenced (and was influenced by) some designs in Five Star Stories. Specifically, Nagano says its concept was then used for the Boowray MH, which does look strikingly similar.
Going back to the context of Gundam, Nagano says the only instruction Tomino gave him was to create something new, that “diverged from the mobile suits made up until that point”, but at the same time that “unified the technological backing and confusing design lines of Zeta and ZZ“. In short, the overall idea for CCA‘s mechanical design was to create something that felt fresh and new but also coherent to the technological advancements shown in the previous Universal Century installments.
Mamoru Nagano’s KIllah Dooga and Psycho Doola
Aside from Char‘s Nightingale, Nagano also worked on the initial designs for two other NeoZeon mobile suits: the “Killah Dooga” and the “Psycho Doola“, later reworked (seemingly from scratch, as their lack ofresemblance is remarkable) as the AMS-119 Geara Doga and (possibly) the MSN-03-2 Psycho Doga (which makes its appearance only in the aforementioned novel version of CCA, Beltorchika’s Children) respectively. Despite not remembering much about these two designs at the time of the commentary, he recalls how the idea was to create consistent designs for Zeon, using a silhouette similar to the Dom‘s and Gelgoog‘s (which coincidentally are the mechs that to Nagano best express the essence of a mobile suit, together with the original Zaku) in order to create an immediate and high-level visual distinction to the “Gundam side of mobile suits“.
Some of the concepts from these two designs as well were then partially brought over to the Five Star Stories‘ MHs, and Nagano remarks how both of the Killah Dooga and the Psycho Doola were drawn in the exact same and raw way he originally envisioned in his mind.
Battleships (Ra Cailum & Rewloola) and others
Regarding the battleships for both the Earth Federation (the Ra Cailum on the left) and Neo Zeon (the Rewloola on the right), Nagano explains how at the time he initially wanted to remove “traditional battleship elements” like the gun turrets and the bridges from the designs, as he couldn’t imagine such a futuristic and advanced war technology still held back by antiquated concepts like those. However, since “by that way of thinking even the mobile suits‘ presence would ultimately seem odd”, he decided to stick with a design more consistent with the mechanical world of Gundam.
Additional poses for the Hi-S Gundam (left) and the Nightingale (right) by animation director Hidetoshi Omori
The last piece of production material related to Nagano‘s mechanical designs that’s included in the Collection, are these additional sheets with poses for the two main mobile suits drawn by animation director Hidetoshi Omori. As he remarks, these drawings have “fewer lines” compared to Nagano‘s design sheets, in order to make it easier for the animators to understand the models and animate them.
To bring to a close this section dedicated to Mamoru Nagano, the dates on his design sheets allow us to make a more educated and precise guess on when he started working on Char’s Counterattack and when he ultimately left the project. Most of the designs are dated simply with “86“, but some include a full date, or at least a month written next to the year. The earliest date seems to be December 1986 (“86 Dec.“), on the Zeta Gundam and the Killah Dooga designs. We know for a fact that ZZ‘s pre-production was in its final phases by November of 1986 (or at least, that the latest documented piece of production material, the main cast character setting for the final episodes by Hiroyuki Kitazume, is dated as late as November 19th), so it might be safe to assume the CCA‘s conceptual phase, in which Nagano‘s involvement as the main mecha designer is inscribed, started around December of that same year. It’s interesting that the design of Hi-S Gundam is dated a generic “86” (much like the Nightingale‘s), but the general concept designs for the E.F.S.F. mobile suits are instead attributed to a later date, January 27th 1987 (“87.27.1“). The same goes for the Ra Cailum, as two different designs are included in the collection, one dated a generic “86“, and the other dated a generic “87“. Many other designs are also dated “87“, like the Hi-S‘ cockpit’s, the Psycho Doola‘s and some more in-detail views of the Nightingale. The latest design, the Rewloola‘s, is dated as late as February of 1987 (“87 Feb.“). The last clue we have are the dates on the proposals re-designs for the main Gundam, drawn consequentially to Nagano’s departure from the project by various artists, the earliest one being April 8th 1987.
To sum everything up, we can assume that Char’s Counterattack‘s pre-production began somewhere between late November and early December of 1986, with Nagano (naturally) already on the team. It was then around late February or early March of 1987 that the decision was made to take him off the project, and just a few weeks later, various other designers and artists submitted their aforementioned redesigns for Amuro‘s “newGundam“.
Yutaka Izubuchi
νGundam
Following Mamoru Nagano‘s departure from the project, around early spring of 1987, many other artists were tasked with creating their own designs for the new main Gundam, setting up an actual “Design Proposal Competition” as the Collection labels it. Among the artists who participated in this “competition”, were animation director Hidetoshi Omori (from whose comment we get to know that from around this time director Tomino wanted the new Gundam to “have a cape” on its back), Sunrise Viscial Design team members Kouichi Inoue, Shigeru Horiguchi and Nobushiki Tsukada, Masahisa Suzuki, Kazunori Nakazawa and notably Hideaki Anno, whose design are the first ones to refer to the mobile suit not as “Hi-S Gundam” but as “N Gundam“. By this time, Yutaka Izubuchi was appointed to work on the designs for Neo Zeon-side mobile suits instead.
Various design proposals for the new Gundam, respectively from left to right by: Shigeru Horiguchi, Kouichi Inoue, Kazunori Nakazawa (the last two designs). The last drawing on the right is by Kouichi Inoue and it’s one of the tracings over Kunio Okawara and Yoshikazu Yasuhiko’s original drawings
According to Inoue, it was hard to effectively put together all the requests made by Tomino and the sponsors for the new Gundam‘s design; in order to make the overall design concept clearer, director Tomino asked the designers to “go back to the original Gundam” and to make “something simple” in direct opposition to the complicated and transformable designs from the latest (at the time) installments, like ZZ‘s. Inoue reveals also that one of their inspirations were the Formula One machines, and that they tried to incorporate into the Gundam‘s designs the multi-layered structure of components like the SuperTrapp mufflers. What ultimately helped the team to get closer and closer to the simplicity requested in the design concept though, was a much more straightforward process: tracing over Kunio Okawara‘s designs and Yoshikazu Yasuhiko‘s perspective drawing sheets of the original RX-78Gundam.
A detail that may prove particularly interesting for those enthusiasts who are especially into the technological evolution and progression of the U.C., is that during these early stages of the designs for this new Gundam, the psycho-frame was supposed to be installed all over its body, like in the later RX-0 Unicorn Gundam, instead of just around the cockpit.
Shigeru Horiguchi’s final design for the Fin Funnels
The initial idea to use a “plate-shaped funnel” to make up the cape director Tomino asked for, which Inoue adds was not meant to be a “typical cape that covered one’s whole back” but rather something asymmetrical, “hanged on only one of the shoulders”, was conceptualized by the Viscial Design team. Reportedly, to convey their idea more intuitively to the producers and the director, instead of simply drawing a design sheet for it, the team used a 1/60 scale Gunpla and attached a cut-out cardboard panel on its back left side. That same plastic model was then shown directly to director Tomino by producer Uchida. Upon being approved, the task to refine such design for the Fin Funnels was handed over to Shigeru Horiguchi.
Horiguchi says he drew and redrew the funnels over and over several times, until he finally came up with an idea he was incredibly confident in: what he describes as the “bamboo-sushi-mat-like” funnels in the picture. He was so confident in fact, that on the final design sheets he showed director Tomino, carried away by his enthusiasm, he wrote unprofessional and self-admiring comments like “good!“, comments he refers to in the commentary as the “mistakes of one’s youth”, quoting Char‘s famous line from the original Mobile Suit Gundam. What surprised and pleased him the most though, was Tomino‘s immediate approval of the design.
Yutaka Izubuchi’s designs for the new Gundam: on the left a more rough study sketch and on the right a more refined design
When it comes to his design for the Proposal Competition (dated April 29th 1987), Izubuchi states he was very supportive of director Tomino‘s idea of returning to a simpler Gundam; the rough sketch on the left, he says, was likely a “study to integrate the overall simpler silhouette of the original Gundam into the new design”. His is also the very first design to have Amuro‘s logo printed on its left shoulder, albeit much more complex compared to the very minimal final version. As reported earlier, Izubuchi worked on the νGundam‘s design separately from the other artists and the Viscial Design team, this also explains why his designs are dated a few weeks later (some of the previously discussed designs are dated as early as April 6th). He knew how the other proposed designs looked like, but wasn’t in direct contact with any of the other artists, as producer Uchida acted as an intermediary for everything. Because the schedule was so tight, Izubuchi says he was kind of a “pinch hitter” for the project, and has been one since the time he was working as a “guest” mechanical designer on Aura Battler Dunbine. As another consequence of the pressing schedule, Izubuchi recalls that director Tomino didn’t provide many of his opinions or comments on the final νGundam design.
On a more technical note, as already partially described, some of the features in Izubuchi‘s final design were borrowed from the work of other artists, like the Fin Funnels “cape” concept ideated by the Viscial Design team, and the piece of armor that protects the ankle that was “suggested to him by producer Uchida and originally came from one of MasahisaSuzuki‘s designs”. Another detail he really liked but likely comes from another artist’s idea, is the double V antenna on the νGundam‘s head that thus has four spikes instead of the classic two.
Re-GZ
The RGZ-91 Re-GZ, as mentioned earlier in Mamoru Nagano‘s section, is meant to be a variant of the Zeta Gundam, specifically, a mass-produced (and lower-price, according to Izubuchi) version. The name Re-GZ stands in fact for Refined Gundam Zeta. One key point in designing the Re-GZ was to make it look like the Zeta, but at the same time not “too much like a Gundam“; basically, to make a simplified and stripped-down version of the Zeta. For this exact reason, some Gundam-like elements of the original design were removed or repositioned, like the V antenna that was changed into a simpler non-V antenna-like shape, and instead of being positioned on the front of the mobile suit‘s head, was attached to its top, pointing backwards.
Izubuchi just drew the overall rough design and a sketch of the transformation mechanism, and then entrusted the rest of the work to assistant designer Kouichi Ohata, as he was already busy designing the other mobile suits. Izubuchi says that at the time he had Ohata work in his home studio, so communication between the two was very quick and efficient. Ohata is also responsible for the original concept of the mobile suit‘s B.W.S. (Back Weapon System), that Izubuchi later polished and refined. He then asked mechanical designer Yoshinori Sayama to do the final clean-up for the whole Re-GZ.
Jegan
The RGM-89 Jegan is another of the E.F.S.F. mass-produces mobile suits, Izubuchi says, the successor to the Nemo line rather than the GM‘s. In the early rough designs, the Jegan has indeed overall slimmer proportions and a taller build, additional signs of it being initially inspired by the Nemo. The Vulcan Pod installed on the Jegan‘s head is a reference to the Zeta‘s Gundam Mk-II, and in general the design tries to incorporate many elements of the main machines from the previous (to CCA) Gundam installments.
According to Izubuchi, due to their similarity, many people compared the Jegan to the Ingram in Mobile Police Patlabor, that was released in April 1988, around the same time as CCA.
The initial rough design (on the left of the picture, complete with Tomino‘s corrections) was somewhat heavily revisited, following the instructions director Tomino and producer Uchida gave to the designer. For example, Uchida asked to remove the waist armor, a decision that ended up making the suit feel more sturdy and solid overall (but also “more similar to the Ingram“). Director Tomino, on the other hand, asked to revise the head which originally made the mobile suit look “too much like a weakling”, and also directed to make the nozzles on the backpack bigger in size.
The Jegan‘s a “long-lasting” mobile suit, appearing in following works like Mobile Suit Gundam F91, and whose variants have appeared even in more recent titles like Mobile Suit Gundam Unicorn and Mobile Suit GundamHathaway’s Flash. In this regard, Izubuchi believes it was a successful design for the Earth Federation‘s new “flagship” machine.
Sazabi
Not strictly related to its mechanical design, but much like what happened with the νGundam, the Sazabi too went through various renames during the pre-production phase of CCA. The very first name Char‘s new (and last) mobile suit was given was apparently “Nightingale“, as it was indeed referred to during the early stages of the project, when Nagano was still on board (and, as already pointed out earlier, as its counterpart in the Beltorichika’s Children novel ended up being called). The next name it was given (even though it’s not clear as to why “Nightingale” was changed) was “The Knack“, but ultimately this name too was changed to the final “Sazabi“, due to trademark issue. One thing that didn’t change in the process, unlike with the νGundam, was its overall design concept, that was most definitely solidly established ever since the early stages.
Izubuchi says that what he wanted for this design was for it to “inherit the Zeon-style traits” from the other mobile suits of the Principality. “Rather than being just a Zaku-type mobile suit” he intended it as “the successor to the Dom and the Gelgoog“, and this inheritance is seen in elements like the “wide skirt-like armor and the verniers on its shoulders and legs”. The head was instead inspired by the helmet Char himself wore during the One Year War, its design being replicated “as is”; the horn-like elements and the lines of the helmet were both incorporated in the head’s design. It was a motif intended “to make the impression upon people that the Sazabi was indeed Char‘s personal machine”.
A rather troublesome aspect of Sazabi‘s design, Izubuchi explains, was the placement of the cockpit. He initially thought it was placed in the mobile suit‘s torso as usual, but in director Tomino‘s boards it appeared to be placed on the mech’s head instead. The schedule was too thigh at the time, and Izubuchi says he regrets he couldn’t really think this through as much as he would have liked to: his original idea was to place the spherical cockpit directly inside the Sazabi‘s head, but it would have been way too smaller than it should have. Tomino then proposed to move it under the mobile suit‘s neck, but even in that case, Izubuchi says, the proportions didn’t really make full sense, and thus when towards the end of the movie the νGundam holds Char‘s cockpit in its hand, “it’s obvious that the cockpit’s size is wrong”.
A more detailed view of the Sazabi’s backpack, as well as other mechanical details. This sheet is dated May 26th 1987, and it’s interesting to note that the Sazabi was still called “The Knack” to this date.
Another interesting aspect of the design were the funnels. They were originally designed to be an evolution of the MAN-08 Elmeth and the AMX-004 Qubeley‘s remote-controlled bits, and as the name “funnel” suggests, they were also supposed to have an overall simple cylindrical structure. That would have been way too uninteresting however, so Izubuchi added a little “gimmick to them”, so that when launched, “their outer shielding would spread out like wings, making them look like cross-shaped objects from upfront”.
Lastly, various notes on the design sheets remark how, as opposed to the νGundam‘s, very few steps and corrections were required for the Sazabi‘s design, since its concept and design line were very clearly outlined from the beginning stages, and the first rough sketches were consequentially already really close to what ended up being the final design.
Jagd Doga
The Jagd Doga was initially supposed to be called “Pyscho Doga” (or “Doola“, as seen in Nagano‘s drafts). The reason its name was later changed to the on we know today is strikingly simple: Izubuchi says he “didn’t like the name Pyscho Doga at all”, so when he submitted his design proposal, he “submitted is as the ‘Jagd Doga‘ instead”, and that ended up being used as the final name for the Neo Zeon‘s mobile suit.
It was designed as a “Newtype-exclusive version” of the Geara Doga, and its image was to overall resemble that of a knight; its head’s shape was in fact meant to be similar to the the face guard of a knight’s armor. An interesting thing to note is that the Jagd Doga‘s colors, that look like yellow and gray in the final movie, were instead supposed to be gold and silver. As Izubuchi explains, “with today’s CG it would definitely be possible, but it was quite hard to recreate that effect at the time”. In this regard, he regrets that he could have made it look better overall.
This time too, the design hardly changed at all from the first rough drafts; aside from the head, the overall balance of the mobile suit was basically left unchanged. Around the same stage the head of the Jagd Doga was refined to look more like a knight’s armor, Gyunei‘s Beam Assault Rifle was also designed. The mech’s design itself wasn’t too difficult to put together (having the Geara Doga as its base), and the real highlight were instead its weapons, especially Quess‘ unit’s Mega Gatling Gun and the Heat Knife attached to its Beam Saber. The latter (“unfortunately”) ended up not being used in the movie, although “not very practical”, says Izubuchi, “it’s an interesting shape that was never quite used before” in Gundam, so it would have been fun to see how it could have worked in practice. The Mega Gatling Gun on the other hand was used in the story, and even though he didn’t know the extent of it (that is, the scene where Quess ends up killing her own father by blowing up the bridge of the battleship he was riding on), Izubuchi designed it as a flashy and brutal weapon. Unlike Gyunei‘s Beam Rifle, which wouldn’t have had quite the same impact, “making it a Gatling-type gun” allowed the scene to be even more brutal in its presentation.
Geara Doga
The Geara Doga is admittedly a mobile suitIzubuchi really likes. It was supposed to be the successor to the Zaku II, and it was quite successful in that regard, as the mechanical designer himself remarks. The whole idea was simply to make a “modern day Zaku“, and also embed in its design a little more of the “Spartan imagery” it already had.
As the Geara Doga is a mass produced, general-purpose suit like the Zaku II, a wide variety of weapons were designed for it to use. Another trait that extends not only to the Geara Doga and Zeon-side but also the the Earth Federation-side of mobile suits as well, that was conceptualized around this same time, was the idea for each side to have a distinct type of manipulator with peculiar differences on their mobile suits. For instance, the Zeonsuits having rounded fingers and the E.F.S.F.suits having squared ones also is a “trend” that started in that same period. Both the Geara Doga and the Jegan are “long-lasting designs” as Izubuchi says, “but in that sense, the manipulators’ designs are even more long-lasting”.
α Azieru
In Tomino‘s original scenario, Quess was supposed to pilot only the Psycho Doga (Jagd Doga) until the very end. Izubuchi however, wanted a “more impressive, gigantic and monstrous enemy to appear” in the movie, so he made and submitted the design in the picture. At that time, the name “Psycho Doga” was already replaced by his “Jagd Doga“, so he proposed this additional design to be the “new Psycho Doga” instead, even though its inspiration was clearly and integrally the MSN-02Zeong (whose name was also written on the first design Izubuchi submitted). Admittedly, he never thought a mech actually by the name of “Neo Zeong” would have appeared in later installments (it in fact appeared in the 2010 Mobile Suit Gundam Unicorn first, and in its sequel, Mobile Suit Gundam Narrative later), but that was indeed the idea and concept Izubuchi had in mind when conceptualizing his α Azieru for CCA.
The α Azieru was designed to be a “last-boss-like monstrous entity”, and its silhouette was meant to look like a cross from the distance. Talking about silhouette, it was around the same time he was figuring out how it would look (or should have looked) from different perspectives that Izubuchi decided to add a mechanism to detach the long propeller tanks from below the suit and have its silhouette drastically change as a consequence. Although it wasn’t prominently featured in the movie, a lot of thought was put into designing the mobile armor‘s transformation mechanism, as many sketches and corrections seem to suggest, both by the mechanical designer Izubuchi himself and by director Tomino, who, I guess, ended up liking the idea of adding this enormous mech to his story.
Its funnels, unlike the Sazabi‘s and the Jagd Doga‘s ones, are not in the newly established cylindrical shape, and instead look like the more classical remote-controlled bits. That was because if he were to enlarge the cylindrical-shaped funnels to match the α‘s size, “it would have then been difficult to properly convey the right sense of size” overall.
Hobby Hizack
There’s not much to say about the Hobby Hizack; as Izubuchi points out, it’s basically just “an Hizack stripped of all its weapons”. All its hand-held weapons are gone, the spikes on its shoulders are gone, and it’s just the same mobile suit with its edges rounded and softened. Interestingly, Izubuchi didn’t directly trace the Hizack‘s model drawings, but instead drew it from scratch. He didn’t really understand what a “civilian-use mobile suit” was supposed to be like, so he went with a sort of “amicable and gentle” design. On a more fun note, he adds that the gaudy final color scheme for the suit really surprised him.
Med
The Med is a small mobile worker, that is, a machine whose primary purpose is work rather than combat. “As the name suggests”, says Izubuchi (“Med” apparently comes from “met” from “helmet“), “its whole designed is centered around its head”, or rather its cockpit, that makes up basically all of its body. It was based on a similar machine, the ZZ‘s Petit Mobile Suit, but instead of the focus being on the legs, it was on the “head”.
Designs by art director Shigemi Ikeda
Ra Cailum
When it comes to the designs for the battleships, many more artists were widely involved in creating them, and not primarily just Yutaka Izubuchi. Many of these “side” mechanical design works, including also elements like the space shuttle, the base jabbersetc. were handed off to Gainax.
The Ra Cailum design in the picture in particular was drawn by art director Shigemi Ikeda; he recalls producer Uchida directly asking him to clean up Mamoru Nagano‘s early designs for the ships. What Izubuchi ended up doing on his hand, was just drawing some really rough sketches which he explains he doesn’t even remember drawing at all, as he was so busy with the other designs at the time. If he had designed the battleships (and all the other mechanical objects) himself, as he admittedly wishes he could have, Izubuchi says he wouldn’t have had enough time for the mobile suits, which understandably were the most central part of his work.
The (Gainax) designers ultimately responsible for the Ra Cailum‘s design were Hideaki Anno and Shoichi Masuo. The details that were adjusted or changed from Nagano and Izubuchi‘s rough sketches following the instructions by director Tomino, include making the turret longer and the Mega Particle Cannon larger (a correction that the director has presumably drawn himself). The design then evolved to have more angular lines, reminiscing of the Earth Federation‘s Salamis-class cruisers, and was later slightly changed again with the lines around the bridge and the bow being more curved and gentle.
Designs by art director Shigemi Ikeda
Rewloola
A similar fate befell the Rewloola, with Ikeda (eagerly, as he recalls having had much fun drawing these spaceships designs) cleaning up Nagano‘s early designs under request of producer Uchida. Ikeda‘s drawing were then used as a reference by the Gainax designers to refine their own, more conceptual designs. For the Neo Zeon‘s battleship too, Izubuchi barely had the time to draw rough sketches; interestingly, he says that for both the Rewloola and the Ra Cailum, he hadn’t seen Nagano‘s early designs, and created his drafts totally on his own.
The Rewloola‘s design too was handled by Anno and Masuo; the design was likely inspired by Zeon‘s previous cruisers such as the Musai-class and the Gwadan-class ones. By the time the Gainax artists submitted their first rough drafts, ideas like the shape of the hull were already part of the design. Concurrently to the Rewloola, the Musaka-class was being designed as well, but contrary to the former’s design, which got changed a lot in the process, the latter’s one was basically left unchanged since its early stages.
To conclude this section on the mechanical design, I think it’s worth noting that all the design were made between late April and late June of 1987. A lot of roughs for the Neo Zeon-side mobile suits are dated sometime in April, which lines up with Izubuchi being tasked with them early, when everyone else was working on the redesign for the Hi-S Gundam. Several of those very rough designs (“sketches” would be a better word perhaps), including one for the so-called “Berge Doga” based on the WWII German tank “Bergepanzer“, ultimately didn’t make their way to the final product, but that’s most likely by design, as they were intended just as a conceptualization of the design vision for Char’s Counterattack as a whole. By the first half of May, all the drafts and rough designs for both the Earth Federation and Neo Zeonmobile suits were completed, and between late May and late June, all the designs (including the weapon’s) were refined and cleaned up. The latest design sheet is the Med‘s final one, and is dated June 26th 1987.
Character Design
This second major section of the article, dedicated to the character design, aims to explore some of the drafts that were drawn by character designer Hiroyuki Kitazume before the designs were ultimately finalized. Much like the previous section, this one too will feature a commentary by the artist himself, but it won’t be divided in sub-sections. Instead, I’ll present the various character designs and corresponding commentaries in one longer, continuous piece.
Amuro Ray’s earliest rough character design
In the Records Collection book, this chapters starts off with several different design sheets for AmuroRay, the last one dated as late as April 11th 1987 and, while the first one is not explicitly dated, based off some other early designs (notably, the earliest CharAznable one) we can assume it was made around March 13th of the same year. Rather than directly commenting on Amuro‘s design, Kitazume starts with talking about the “overall picture”, that is, the overall concept and vision behind Char’s Counterattack‘s character design. Director Tomino started by simply asking Kitazume to “try drawing Amuro and Char in a new way, not just as an extension of Yoshikazu Yasuhiko‘s work” in the previous installments. Despite how simple of a request this may (or may not) sound, “Amuro was still Amuro, and Char had to still look like Char“, so the point of several different designs for the main characters being made was to find the correct “style” and design line by a trial-and-error-like process. Kitazume‘s first work as a character designer (for Gundam, and second in general) was ZZ, but that time he was asked to do things quite literally the opposite way; the concept for ZZ‘s character design was to continue on the same line and legacy left by Yasuhiko, and not only that, but another core point of the whole show was to lower the age of the target audience, so Kitazume “deliberately created designs that were easier to understand”. As said earlier, Tomino didn’t provide any specific instruction for Char’s Counterattack‘s designs, but the overall concept he outlined was not to make the characters “look like manga’s”, since his goal was to depict a “human drama”. As Kitazume explains, the director requested the character designer to refrain from creating what he describes as “deformed” designs, with “big heads and eyes”; aside from Quess, who being the “heroine” was allowed to be slightly deformed, all the other (main) characters had to convey real “human expressions”. In this regard, Kitazume‘s design process (for Amuro in this example) involved imagining how the character would have looked like when acted by voice actor Tooru Furuya, how expressive would it have been and whether or not it would still have looked like Amuro.
Beltorichika Irma’s character design
Right next to Amuro‘s character design, there’s one you may be a bit surprised to find here, or perhaps one that you did expect to find, if you instead know something about the original scenario for CCA. I’m talking about Beltorchika Irma‘s character design of course, dated March 13th 1987.
For those of you who’re unfamiliar with this topic, let me digress from the character design to clear things up a bit here. When it was decided for Char’s Counterattack to finally become a movie, the first script director Tomino submitted was somewhat quite different from the one that ended up being adapted in the actual movie. Which might sound reasonable, as it’s not so unlikely to change a thing or two about a movie’s script this early in the production. However, when it comes to CCA, Tomino‘s initial script was completely rejected. As for why that was, a more thorough answer was given by Tomino himself in the interview I mentioned before (which, by the way, is also featured in the Records Collection book just before the “Making of” chapter), but in short, it basically comes down to the presence of Beltorchika as Amuro‘s love interest, or to put it bluntly, actual partner. The relationship between her and the Gundam pilot seemed unappealing and unsuited for the “hero of a robot movie” in the eyes of the sponsors at the time, and since her role was pretty relevant and quite central in the narrative, the original script had to be rewritten almost from scratch. Fortunately, you can still experience that initial version of CCA through the 1988 novelization I’ve brought up quite a few times up to this point, Mobile Suit Gundam:Char’s Counterattack –Beltorchika’s Children (or, if you prefer, its subsequent 2014 manga adaptation), but the takeaway here is that ultimately Beltorchika Irma didn’t make her appearance in the movie version. I thought it was interesting nonetheless to spend a few words to her character design, which was drawn in the earliest stages of the production alongside Amuro‘s and Char‘s as the date seems to suggest, even though the book doesn’t offer any comment on it.
Chan Agi’s rough character design
Following Beltorchika, there’s Chan Agi‘s design; a choice that feels rather deliberate, as she was the new character introduced to take Beltorchika‘s place in the story. Chan‘s very first design is dated April 3rd; this information allows us to place the revision of the script during the second half of March 1987, since Beltorchika’s design is dated March 13th.
As Kitazume explains, Chan‘s design direction was hard to put together at first. He’d drawn many different sheets like with Amuro and Char‘s designs, but none of them matched what the director’s wanted for the character. Tomino (presumably, as the character designer says he’s not entirely sure it was actually Tomino) then asked Kitazume to approach her design from a different direction: he suggested to use a “real, living person as a model” and “incorporate that aspect in the design”. Of course, he didn’t mean to simply copy the look of an actual existing person and draw it as is, but rather to integrate the image of a real person into the character design. As a result, around April 20th, Chan‘s design started to look like the one we know from the movie, and with some minor adjustments to the hairstyle and the eyes, by April 23rd Chan‘s design was completed.
In regard to all his character design work (for CCA) in general, Kitazume remarks how director Tomino warned him about the length of the character’s necks. “If you think of Hollywood actors, their necks are longer than the average Japanese person’s one”, so in order to properly convey the right proportions in the character design, even if the character was “wearing military uniforms with stand-up collars, their neck lines had to be clearly visible”. Kitazume payed much attention to these details when working on the designs, and since Tomino reportedly wanted this attention to details and precision to be present in the actual animation as well, Kitazume remembers warning the animation directors too about this particular request.
Bright Noa’s rough character design
Noticeably, one feature of Captain Bright Noa‘s earliest design that didn’t make it to the final product is his beard. And by “the final product” I specifically mean the movie and the movie only, since in the Beltorchika’s Children manga he does still feature a beard.
Anyways, Kitazume explains how his intent behind this choice (to add the beard, that is) was to “make his presence even more important considering the passage of time”, as Bright had always been a character with “great presence and dignity” since the very first Mobile Suit Gundam. The idea was to make him look more like Blex Forer from Zeta, with a beard and also a larger waist. Kitazume says he was “just a young man around 24” by the time he drew this design, and admittedly “didn’t understand what it meant to be in one’s ‘prime of life’ yet”. Bright was just in his thirties, and “had no business looking like an old man like this”, so in the final design he looks a fair bit younger. Kitazume admits that at the time he had little knowledge and didn’t know “finer techniques” to draw adult characters, so he ultimately used to simply add a beard or mustaches to achieve the effect of making the characters look older.
Hathaway Noa’s rough character design
This initial rough design for Hathaway Noa, dated March 19th, was drawn exceptionally early, when the general direction for the character design was yet to be decided altogether. It’s no surprise then that it looks nothing like the final, refined one. Quoting Kitazume‘s own words, “it doesn’t look like Gundam at all”.
To make Hathaway look more like Bright and Mirai‘s son in his later design, Kitazume tried to replicate and incorporate in his design some of the facial features of his parents, like the eyes being smaller than usual. Hathaway is by no means a new character, for he was introduced as early as in Zeta, designed by the then-character designer Yoshikazu Yasuhiko. However, aside from the overall concept of not strictly sticking to Yasuhiko‘s designs, “the age difference was too great” for Hathaway‘s original design to serve as any kind of reference when making this new one.
Char Aznable’s earliest rough character design
Char Aznable‘s initial design proposals, says Kitazume, were probably influenced by the ZZ character design style, that is, as explained earlier, a character design aimed to a younger audience. Evidence of that influence can be seen in the “Neo Zeon uniform or in the long hair”. “The character design in anime started with Astro Boy (Tetsuwan Atom, 1963), then was developed further in Space Battleship Yamato (1974) and Mobile Suit Gundam (1979), and later evolved even further in Macross (1982) and Mobile Suit Zeta Gundam (1985)”. At that stage, character design in anime “had stepped up a gear”, as the demands and requirements for the designs for both the clothing and the characters themselves evolved significantly. That was “exactly what director Tomino wanted [for CCA]: to create characters suited to act out a ‘human drama'”.
Char Aznable’s second rough character design
Of course, that same concept and vision were applied when working on Char‘s character design as well, including his military uniform, which played an integral role in establishing the overall “sense of realism” in the design. The slicked back hairstyle that ended up in the final design, Kitazume recalls, was also one of his ideas. He thought it would have been rather odd for the leader and commander of Neo Zeon to have “long hair with a 7/3 haircut”. So, he proposed a hairstyle with a “more mature feel to it”, but that still retained some semblance of wildness. The final design ultimately featured an even more slicked back hairstyle, as the goal was to “get totally rid of the anime-like impression” in it, and since it was common back then for adult men to expose their foreheads more, it was decided for a more mature and dignified design for Char.
Nanai Miguel’s rough character design
Mirroring the arrangement of the designs for the Earth Federation side of the characters, following Char there’s his lover, Nanai Miguel. Much like what he was suggested to do with Chan‘s design, Kitazume used a real person as a reference for Nanai‘s design as well; he recalls using Japanese actresses as models for Chan‘s design and Hollywood actresses for Nanai‘s. Since he already established this very design direction when creating Chan, Nanai‘s design was pretty easy and straightforward to work on.
Quess Paraya’s first rough character design (left) and second rough character design (right)
The amount of drafts and how different the character looks in each of them clearly shows how much Kitazume struggled with Quess Paraya‘s character design. Director Tomino didn’t give him any specific instruction, which in a sense made things worse for the character designer, as he admits he “didn’t really know what kind of person the girl called Quess was”. In the very vague instructions the director gave to Kitazume, there was no mention of her appearance nor of her personality whatsoever.
“She’s not like Lalah, nor like Four, nor like Ple, but she’s a newtype girl”, that was pretty much it. Therefore, the very first rough design (on the left) Kitazume drew gives off a faint impression of a mix between Four and Ple; what’s not faint in the slightest is the “vivid depiction of how lost” he was. He’s not sure it’s something he purposefully intended to depict at the time, but Kitazume thinks “the asymmetry in Quess‘ design was a way to convey her dual nature”. Looking at it now, the asymmetrical hairstyle and clothes serve really well to express her inner instability, but at the time he probably drew it just as an aesthetic quirk.
Quess‘ clothing changes a lot every time she appears, so it was especially difficult to come up with all the design variations. Her clothes are “often frilly” which, looking back, may have been a way to convey “Quess‘ elusive girly side”. When working on the character design for ZZ, director Tomino often scolded Kitazume and told him to further study clothing design, advising him to use western children’s clothes as a reference.
Grave Guss’ first rough character design (left) and Gyunei Guss’ more refined character design (right)
GyuneiGuss‘s name in the original script was Grave Guss, the same name that (unexpectedly at this point) was later used in the Beltorichika’s Children novel, but his role and status in the story remained unchanged (for instance, he was always meant to be a cyber newtype from the start). Like with Char‘s, Gyunei‘s initial design (on the left) was somewhat reminiscent of the ZZ‘s style; “he had a villain-like feel” to him that was no good for CCA. An advice (or direction) director Tomino gave Izubuchi in this regard was that “bad guys shouldn’t have a bad face. Just because they play the role of the bad guy there’s no need to make them look bad”; the Zabi‘s faces in the original Gundam were those of bad guys, and it was fine at the time, but it ultimately “ends up making the design look too much anime-like”. So, consequentially, Gyunei‘s designs changed fairly drastically.
Towards the end of the animation process, Kitazume recalls a small talk he had with producer Uchida, who told him how his designs “were generally hard to draw”, seemingly in terms of consistency, “but Gyunei looked like Gyunei no matter who drew it”. In that sense, he believe it was a successful design, and personally he also thinks Gyunei‘s appearance really matched the voice and acting of voice actor Kouichi Yamadera, an aspect that consequentially greatly helped the character leaving a strong impression overall.
Kitazume describes Gyunei, Neo Zeon‘s Rezin Schnyder and the E.F.S.F.‘s Kayra Su as characters with “different vectors” that were all clearly outlined in the designs. Gyunei‘s a “cyber newtype, a rival-like character impulsive and ambitious at his core”. Rezin is a “professional fighter”, even though she’s an oldtype, she’s not too wary of the little things and gives off the impression of being a real “warmonger”. Lastly, Kayra too is a soldier and a pilot, but she’s “the polar opposite of Rezin“, being more of a naive girl. “She deeply values the greater cause” and moral aspects of war, while Rezin “cares solely about the combat”. Although they’re both highly skilled pilots, their stances are in complete opposition, and Kitazume believes he was able to reflect this aspect of their character in the designs.
A more refined Adenauer Paraya’s character designs
Concluding the character design section, there are a few comments on the remaining side characters’ designs. In Quess‘ father, Adenauer Paraya‘s early designs, he appeared either “too wide or too thin”, since the initial idea was to draw him as being at either one of the extremes. In the end, Kitazume settled with a more average build, he explains, as “it would have been out of place for a minor bureaucrat like him to have a body too well-built”. The other supporting characters weren’t at all difficult to draw, as the overall design direction had already been well established by that time. For characters like Cameron Bloom, who’d already made their appearance in previous entries, there was little to no trouble either. Kitazume admits that when it came to side characters, he’d exhausted his “design repertoire” with the Gaza Squadron trio in ZZ, but “older characters appeared all the time” and thanks to the experience he got drawing them in different ways, he became “more confident when it comes to designing supporting characters like these”. It’s generally hard to portray each character’s peculiar traits in their design, but thank to how much director Tomino had trained him in designing characters with specific roles, Kitazume says he hardly had any trouble with drawing all the different variations.
All the character designs were drawn starting early March of 1987 with the designs for the main cast, to early June for the supporting characters, the latest one being a cleaned-up and refined sheet for Cameron Bloom. The “oldest” character model included in the Collection is a variation of Nanai‘s design, in which she’s wearing a shirt instead of the usual uniform. This sheet is dated August 13th 1987, but as Kitazume explains it’s not, in fact, the “final design” (that was instead already refined by late April), but rather just one of the specific variations.
Other Designs
Besides mobile suits, battleships and characters, many other designs were necessary to support an immersive depiction of the Universal Century. Rough designs for elements like the normal suits, small props, and the display interfaces are featured in this section. Providing the commentary for this section, there’s again mechanical designer Yutaka Izubuchi.
Some rough sketches by Yutaka Izubuchi
A huge amount of sketches and roughs for the normal suits were drawn by various artists, but as Izubuchi explains, he doesn’t really remember under what circumstances each of the designs was used. Gainax artists by the likes of Shoichi Masuo were appointed to design the normal suits, but their initial results were “too realistic”, whereas the expectation (likely of the producers) was for the designs to have “more character to them”. Consequentially, Izubuchi tried to incorporate elements reminiscent of the designs generally used for the “heroes in tokusatu“, and upon being approved by director Tomino, the new designs were then used for Char‘s and Quess‘ pilot suits.
In the final product, many different types of normal suits were used: those for the Earth Federation soldiers and pilots, those for the Neo Zeon soldiers and pilots, Char‘s and Quess‘ ones, and even the shuttle suits for the civilians. The majority of the rough designs were drawn by Gainax members, remarkably including the name of Yoshiyuki Sadamoto.
Sketches of the firearms by Yutaka Izubuchi
Other elements that needed to be designed were the firearms carried by the soldiers, Izubuchi recalls, since Amuro and Char used them in the story. All the rough designs in the picture were drawn by Izubuchi himself; he remarks how there was no actual final design sheet for the rifle, as it was just carried by a Neo Zeon soldier guarding Beverly Hills Station in the Sweetwater space colony around the halfway mark of the movie.
Some other “minor” designs he worked on were the ones for the marks and logos for both the E.F.S.F. and Neo Zeon, specifically the one that ended up on the Sazabi‘s shield.
Some of the many reference drawings for the displays and interfaces
The images displayed on the monitors of both the spaceships and the mobile suits were drawn by hand instead of being made in CG like they are today, so reference drawings and concept designs were necessary to ensure a proper level of consistency throughout the movie.
Background Art
This last major section features rough sketches and preliminary drafts for the background art and setting, as well as some of the material and drawings used for the three-dimensional model of space colonies. Char’s Counterattack was the first Gundam entry to feature space colonies in CG. Art director Shigemi Ikeda provided the commentary for this section.
The Sweetwater space colony and a sketch of its internal landscape
The Sweetwater space colony, base to Neo Zeon, has an irregular shape clearly “outlining the unstable condition its inhabitants are forced to in”. With this premise, art director Shigemi Ikeda opens his commentary on the background art for Char’s Counterattack. The space colony is divided in two sections, the “open-type” one and the “close-type” one. The close-type part, as the name suggests, is a closed cylinder in shape, with just one line in the middle that serves as the main light source. The open-type one, on the other hand, to let the outside light in, has three giant mirrors on the outside wall, which can be opened and closed to simulate day and night. Give its peculiar appearance and functioning, Ikeda had to draw even specific parts and elements of it, like its mechanical joints.
The art director is personally “really fond of things like the space colonies”, so he recalls having had much fun drawing it. Director Tomino explained to him how in order for people to live inside of a space colony, which is an enclosed and thigh space, “it’s necessary to scrupulously recreate the scenery of Earth”, and a considerable “cost” is spent to achieve such a result. The reason why the inside of a space colony has to look somewhat old-fashioned, is because “people [living inside of it] would go crazy” if that wasn’t the case. Thus, Sweetwater inside looks like a “slightly old-fashioned New York cityscape”, a scenery Ikeda was able to depict only because he had actually traveled to America to do some research. He believes he wouldn’t have been able to recreate such a scenery, like the monorail and the train station, if he “hadn’t seen them with his own eyes”.
The Londenion space colony
Londenion, on the other hand, is a typical “open-type” space colony. What helped Ikeda the most while designing it was “a miniature model someone in the studio had made”. It wasn’t too sophisticated of a model, rather, it was something very simple, made out of a rolled up piece of animation cel with cut-outs corresponding to the mirrors. Still, it made “the way the inside of the colony was reflected on the mirrors” much easier to understand. Unfortunately, pictures of this miniature model aren’t featured in the Collection, but it remains a “very useful reference”, whose impact was then reflected in the final designs for the space colony, as well as in the movie’s actual visuals.
Rough sketches for the mass driver installed on the moon’s surface and the shuttle pad in New Hong Kong are also featured in this section of the Collection; all of these minor designs that blend between mechanical and art direction, were made by Gainax artists.
The Ra Cailum’s internals design
Back then, the internals of mechanical objects like the battleships were not part of the mechanical designer’s work like they are today, but rather it was “common sense” that “the mecha designer would draw the exterior, and the art direction team would do the interior”. Perhaps it was considered background art as it’s used as such in the final product, explains Ikeda, but since he particularly likes drawing battleships anyway, it was a fun work for him to create this kind of designs.
The overall image for the interior of the Ra Cailum (and the other Earth Federation ships in general) was for it to be “straight-lined, regular and symmetric”. This visual theme was present not only in the bridges, corridors and civilian-use rooms, but also in the design for the seats.
The idea to have not just one, but two bridges – a regular one and a combat one – inside the Ra Cailum came directly from director Tomino, who, according to Ikeda, is actually knowledgable about the “real military”, and thus requested him to add the combatbridge in addition to the regular one used for navigation.
The Rewloola’s internals design
When it comes to the internals of the Neo Zeon‘s ships, the visual motif is opposite to the one for Earth Federation, prominently featuring curved lines. This visual trope was actually present since the original Mobile Suit Gundam, with the Zeon‘s Musai-class battleships. Ikeda explains how working on Gundam was something he wanted since the very beginning of his career, so perhaps he put “everything he wanted to do” in his work for CCA.
The Rewloola is characterized by the use of vertical space in the bridge, and the mobile suits deck features a more “organic” design as opposed to the “straight-lined one of the Earth Federation-side” of battleships. Coming up with these kind of differences for each military side was reportedly a “fun task”.
Lastly, Ikeda concludes his commentary talking about the realization of one of the last scenes towards the end of the movie. The scene he’s referring to is obviously the one where the T-shaped “psycho-frame sample flies away, leaving behind a trail of light”, with a 3D earth rotating in the back. As many of you may already know, that 3D model of the earth wasn’t in fact a 3D model at all, instead it was an actual sphere that was rotated and filmed on set. Ikeda had peeled off the surface of an actual, roughly 20cm wide, earth globe, then painted the sky, clouds and land on it himself. He’d been taking care of that same earth globe until “recently” (that is, sometime around 2020 or 2021), keeping it with him in his personal office.
Notes
An additional document full of notes and warnings about the various aspect of the production, including mechanical and character designs, backgrounds and animation itself, is also part of the production material collected in the Making of chapter of Complete Collection. Animation director Hidetoshi Omori explains some of the main points discussed in this document.
One interesting note director Tomino left specifically addressed to Omori himself was to stop using solid black shadows since as a result, the shape of the mecha itself becomes invisible or hard to grasp. Such a style of shading is just the “preference of adults”, and wasn’t allowed in Gundam, which was intended as a product aimed at all ages. Despite the warning, Omori ended up using solid shadows in Char’s Counterattack, but just in one scene, admittedly because it was indeed his own “preference”. The scene he’s referring to is the one in the second half of the movie, when the propeller tanks are detached from the α Azieru, and a shadow, outlined with solid-blacks, falls on the Jadg Doga.
Notes on how the explosions should look like by animation director Hidetoshi Omori
Animation director Omori contributed in writing some of the notes in the document himself, especially (and unsurprisingly) the ones related to the animation itself. An aspect he particularly focused on were the explosions. He explains, he’s always admired the explosions in the original Gundam, and when he had the chance to inquire Yoshikazu Yasuhiko on how they came about, the former character designer and animation director said that on his hand he really liked the explosions in Lupin the Third to the point he wanted to try something like that for himself. Up until that point, the explosions in anime were just a simple “boom-like” effect and Yasuhiko didn’t like that, so he tried to do something different. In a similar fashion, Omori wanted to create his own proper effects for the explosions, so he left some notes specifically in that regard.
Notes on how the fin funnel’s beams should look like by animation director Hidetoshi Omori
Always concerning the animation, but this time coming from director Tomino instead, are some notes about the difference in speed between the mobile suits and the funnels. The director wanted to emphasize and highlight the dynamism of the funnels, so Omori took care of all the scenes where the funnels appear himself. He explains, the finfunnels in particular have a different shape, and the position of their thrusters, being all “concentrated in one place”, greatly alters the way they move. The animation director was also very particular about the change in direction and how the funnels moved consequentially to firing a beam. Another important point Tomino put special attention in, was the fact that the finfunnels are a beam weapon, not a laser weapon, hence he wanted to emphasize the mass of the particles that were fired by the funnels. To achieve this kind of emphasis, Omori thought of casing a shadow on the muzzles of the funnels every time a beam was fired, since particles, as opposed to lasers, do cast a shadow. To highlight the fact that the beam of light traveled in one specific direction, as well as to further emphasize the beam’s speed, he had the opposite, outer side of the muzzle in the dark. However, Omori believes that at the time not many people understood his choice in this regard.
A note on how the clash between two beam sabers should look like by animation director Hidetoshi Omori
One last note, again written by Omori himself, is that when two beam sabers clash, the impact forms a sphere of energy. That is to show that the beam saber with the greater power between the two is canceling out the opponent’s beam. This is exactly what Char meant when he said “my saber is weaker than his?!” while fighting Amuro during the final sequence of the movie, and this same effect was used in the animation.
Before wrapping up, I’d like to write a sort of bibliography, listing all the sources (both internal and external) that I’ve used while writing and researching for this post.
One “internal” source was the aforementioned interview with director Tomino, and another one, as obvious as it sounds, was the Complete Collection of Official Records itself (which, by the way, I believe you still can get a copy of yourself if you look in the right places).
Lastly, a major source of both information and inspiration was The animation of Char’s Counterattack from Animétudes, a post I’ve made extensive use of especially to check the consistency of what I reported with the timeline of the production, specifically when writing Mamoru Nagano‘s section.
This concludes “The Making of Mobile Suit Gundam: Char’s Counterattack“; as I mentioned at the very beginning, it was my first time working on a project of this scale, and (expectedly) it’s the post that took me the longest to make on this blog, as well as the longest one to date in terms of word and characters count. That’s to say, I’m pretty satisfied with how it turned out. I hope this comes across as a useful and informative article to every fan or enthusiast, or everyone in general who’s researching on this movie.
When it comes to “Pokémon” and “animation“, I bet everyone agrees that the most interesting combinations of the two in recent years have been the various web series promoting the release of the new main-line games, starting with Shingo Yamashita‘s Hakumei no Tsubasa (Twilight Wings) for Sword and Shield, then Yuki Hodokishi Futaai (Hisuian Snow) for Legends Arceus, and lastly, Houkago no Breath (Paldean Winds) for Scarlet and Violet.
I’m a bit late to the party here since Houkago no Breath, the one short series I’m going to cover in this post (as you might already have inferred from the title), came out quite some time ago, but having watched it just recently gave me the perfect excuse to write about it (and hopefully I’ll find the time to come back to the other two aforementioned series and put together some thoughts to share here as I’m really fond of them too).
As usual, I’ll try to break down the series episode by episode, by highlighting and commenting on the aspects that caught my eye the most, and in spite of its short running time, being, well, a short web series consisting of 4 episodes, each around 10 minutes in length, there’s a lot of neat details and visual choices to appreciate here, perhaps also thanks to the completely different production circumstances this kind of projects have, as opposed to the much tighter environments of the average TV anime production.
Episode 1
The series director for Houkago no Breath is RyouheiTekeshita, who unsurprisingly also storyboarded the first episode. And I said “unsurprisingly” because the episode starts off with some intricate POV cuts from the perspective of a small Gimmighoul and a sequence of dynamic camera work showcasing the lively region of Paldea and its inhabitants, human and not. One thing this immersive perspectives and camera movements definitely succeed in, is making the world feel alive and engaged, suggesting the cohesion and balance between people and Pokémons, and the integration of the formers in the latter’s every-day lives.
The story follows three original characters, appointed by the principal to make a video to promote and “showcase the splendor of the Academy“. The group, consisting of Ohara, Aliquis, and Houma, is presented in way that even visually hardly leaves any space for interpretations: unlike the world they live it, they lack cohesion.
From left to right: Aliquis, Ohara and Houma
Being positioned at opposite sides and depths in the frame, their lack of involvement with one another is pretty apparent, and thus the use of physical position and strategic framing is established as a major visual theme of this series from its very beginning stages. It’s in fact just a few cuts after this one that another instance of expressive framing foreshadows the contents of the next episode, and also ties back to the idea of our main characters lacking connections, not only between themselves, but also with others as well, as the group of students (which Nemo is part of) who are having fun in the background is isolated from everything else by the frame of the window (and furthermore, in contrast with the previous shot of our main trio, those three are all physically very close, facing directly towards one other).
It’s within this hopeless-seeming context that we’re introduced to the main theme of this episode: the burden of expectations. Ohara, through whose perspective we’re experiencing the current events, is a flute player in the school orchestra, whose conductor is none other than her own father. It’s not hard to imagine what this is leading up to. The expectations on her shoulders (being also appointed to perform a flute solo at the next concert), are crushing her and her passion for music; the only light able to bring her out of this pressing situation being her companion Pokémon Fuecoco (Hogator). And it’s exactly thanks to the little creature’s efforts recovering her scratch-covered flute, that in an attempt to run away from the unpleasantness she feels, she had tossed off a cliff at Mt. Nappé, where she ventured with the excuse of the Paldean traditional “treasure hunt”, that she indeed finds her true treasure right in her bond with Fuecoco; a bond that’s able to reignite her passion for music and playing the flute.
Moving on to Episode 2, the continuity in core themes carries on, as after a flashy and dynamic battle scene, we’re now following Aliquis in his journey discovering what bonds really mean to him. Having lost his battle against Nemo, his ambitions of becoming the strongest trainer are cornering and oppressing him (as effectively conveyed in this suffocating shot). Ultimately, he’s so unable to find a solution to his lack of strength that his insecurities push him so far as to conveniently lay all the blame on his companion Pokémon Meowscarada (Masquernya), lashing out on her in the most harsh of fashions (accompanied with some great use of negative space, as in the shot above).
It’s finally time for his return game against Nemo, and now that he’s cornered not only by his own ambition but by his opponent on the field as well, it’s once again through a physical medium that we see the realization of how important bonds truly are; Aliquis tries to reach for the Pokéball containing Meowscarada, but in its stead he finds one of the spherical, stuffed sweets that he and his companion are so fond of, an important symbol of their relationship and growth (as previously shown in a flashback). Filled with guilt for what he’d said not long before, and also overflowing in a newly discovered resilience, he desperately calls out to Meowscarada who makes her appearance in a rather flashy way; in the beautifully, actually dark environment, the shining and flamboyant Terastallizationlooks even more bright an mighty (also worth of note is how the the synchronization between the two is conveyed by the layout of the close-up shot, with each of them occupying a parallel and equal amount of space in the frame), and the final stretch of the battle between the two trainers begins, while the episode, instead, ends, leaving us with a cliffhanger.
Episode 3
Aliquis has actually lost to Nemo again, but that’s hardly of any importance, since this recent experience made him realize that his bonds are what his strength finds its very roots in, and much like Ohara after the events of the first episode, he’s now ready to dedicate himself to the new challenge that awaits our three main characters.
It’s the third one, Houma, however, who still needs to understand where to find the resolve he lacks, or more specifically, what his role is in this word where everyone else seems to have already found their own and proved themselves in some capacity. That much is true even in the smaller scope of this team working on the promotional video for the academy, where Houma is the only one of the three being left out (as conveniently reminded by the clever framing in the above shot).
His own little adventure is much more direct in its approach compared to the other two’s, as Houma decides to join the supposedly dangerous and nefarious Team Star in order to get some scoop on them and gain the position and respect he craves for within the academy. All the energy and zeal he poured into this daring endeavor of his though, didn’t seem to have paid off at first, since the people at Team Star revealed to be a kind and compassionate group, quite the opposite of the wicked image people have of them. It’s again thanks to the companion Pokémon, Quaxly (Kuwassu), who evolved into Quaxwell (Welkamo) during the time they spent together with Team Star‘s Caph Squad, that the adventure actually bears its fruits, as Houma realizes that what he was truly striving for was already there by his side the whole time, a true bond of mutual care and understanding. Through the self-confidence arising from the strength of his now fully realized bond, he’s finally able to fit into the same frame (both metaphorically and physically) with the two other main characters, as the next day there’s no distance between the three of them, in direct contrast to how this episode, and the show in general, had started. Purposeful and deliberate use of position in the frame doesn’t get more expressive than this.
Episode 4
The last episode, Episode 4, also being the last in terms of length clocking in at just below 8 minutes, starts off in an unusual way compared to what we got used to with the other three. Instead of following a specific member of the cast (or any of the three for that matter), we’re presented with a generic student sitting at his desk, picking up his Rotom Phone to watch what seems to be a newly published video on the academy’s website; that’s right, that’s exactly the promotional video our three main characters have been working on the past three episodes.
A beautiful montage of footage depicting Paldea‘s wilderness, showcasing, of course, Pokémons in their natural habitats (including some really cool cuts with great photography at play) brings us back to the very first sequence in this series (albeit without Takeshita‘s signature camera work this time) portraying all the harmony and appeal of this highly involved world, alternating with footage of trainers intent on battling with each other, all accompanied by a harmonious orchestral soundtrack. In short, it’s the result of Ohara, Aliquisand Houma‘s combined efforts to showcase the true splendor of their region Paldea, of their academy, and alsoof the world of Pokémon in general.
The video goes on until around the half-way mark of the episode, first with Ryme‘s live performance on stage, and then with Nanjamo (Iono)’s intervention, giving a brief introduction to the region’s Gym-leaders.
Nanjamo from Episode 4
When it comes to the technical side of things, it’s impossible not to mention the absurd quality and consistency of this character acting sequence animator Kaito Tomioka crafted for hisbelovedNanjamo. The insane amount of drawings makes it so that there’s always something moving in every frame and truly captures her energetic and electric personality. The way the movements’ inertia is taken into account really gives volume to the whole animation. And beyond that, I even had to cut the clip to around a third of its length since it was so long the file size was surpassing the upload limits; this goes to say that with this (relatively) short cut, which by itself is already outstanding enough, you’re just getting a taste of how incredible (and incredibly fun to watch) the whole sequence is. Truly a remarkable work.
Final sequence of Episode 4
To close off this episode (and thus the whole series as well), the main trio is once again reunited in that same classroom (this time again, they’re all close to one another), enthusiastically yakking about how well received the video they put together was, highlighting how everyone poured something about them in the making of it, also resulting in their own personal growth. Not only the bonds with their Pokémons were strengthened thanks to this ensemble work, but a new bond within the three has also been born, with Ohara, Aliquisand Houma seeing each other off until their next quest together, and then moving forward, each to their new adventures.
It’s always super fun to check out these web series and appreciate their quirkiness and particular attention to details, and all the passion you can feel the people who worked on them poured into every single sequence. They’re also relatively short, which is a huge advantage both as a consumer who likes to rewatch stuff many times, and as a writer, since my thoughts on them can be fully covered within a single article like this one. I really hope to come back to other content in this format (whether related to Pokémon or not) and spend some time writing about it again sometime.
It’s nothing new how incredibly polished and consistent Sousou no Frieren has been all the way since its first few episodes, so it’s to no one’s surprise that the last episode of this ambitious two consecutive cours project was remarkably good as well, to the point it might seem redundant or even effortless to write about it. And that might really be the case, actually, but I think that encapsulating the core values and themes of this entire adaptation (and story) in 24 minutes of animation to conclude a majestic 28 episodes long journey was no simple feat, and yet it was surely achieved in the best possible fashion, so much so that it does, indeed, deserve to be written about.
That being said, I’m in no way qualified to write a full-fledged review of Frieren‘s 28th episode, and any attempt to do so will most likely result in a pretentious mess of an article. So, instead of doing that, in this article I’ll be focusing on what caught my attention the most while watching the episode for the first time: Keiichirou Saitou‘s storyboard.
While I’m yet too unexperienced to write about one’s “style”, I can definitely provide some of my insights on certain scenes and shots and what tools they use to convey specific feelings or ideas in a visual way.
One of the aspect where Frieren shines the most, especially when it comes to this anime adaptation, is certainly the characterization of the space around the characters, with special attention to how and where they’re are placed and framed. Frieren‘s world needs to be perceived as alive and dynamic, even outside of the character’s perspective; time passes and leaves its marks even if we’re not there to see it. In short, the space where the characters move in is not just a static, background entity, rather, it has an actual presence and a distinctive role which needs to be portrayed visually as well. And it’s these almost contemplative shots, where the characters are immersed and engulfed in what’s around them instead of being the bigger presence in the frame themselves, that convey this idea so subtly. Suddenly they’re not the focus anymore, and are instead just one of the tiny elements of this grater, larger world, simply acting inside of it as many others are.
There are many other shots that rely on this kind of subtle and clever framing throughout the episode, highlighting, and more importantly embedding in it, this core theme of space.
Balancing the presence of the characters and the background in a frame is not the only interesting aspect of it, the (visual) relation between the characters and the background elements around them has a lot to tell for itself as well.
For example, just a quick glance at this frame will immediately make clear whose vision on magic has been more flourishing over the years; which great mage has put the most effort in understanding humanity, between Frieren and Serie. Framing the two of them at such an angle that the flowerbed appears bigger and thicker on Frieren‘s side and thinner on Serie‘s.
Before moving on to the next section, let’s stick with “space” for a bit and talk about another scene that caught my attention: Frieren‘s and Lenren‘s confrontation. Or rather, the moments before their actual confrontation.
Space is not only about the physical distance or placement of characters and elements in the background, but can as well be used to describe and portray the figurative distance between characters’s minds and feelings. This scene does a particularly good job at that, with some very clever storyboard at play. The feeling of uneasiness (or that at least something not good is about to happen) is already present from the moment Lenren appears (aided by the dialogue he had with Serie in the previous episode), but the almost jarring close-up shots on the eyes of the two characters certainly help escalating the ominous tone of the scene. Midway through their dialogue, the entire space in the frame is suddenly filled up with the eyes of Frieren first and Lenren second, cutting out everything else that was previously present in the frame; an intimate shot that abruptly nullifies the distance between us and the character’s true feelings and emotion in that moment, and in doing so also cuts Stark out of the scene (there’s no close-up eye shot of his), since he cannot see nor feel what the two mages are really seeing.
Space is a recurring theme in the whole series, but it’s definitely not the only one, and even more definitely, not the main one. The one topic that has been extensively present throughout Frieren as a whole, being the major thematic element of the story, is of course, time. The passage of time and its outcomes, to be precise.
Saitou has already proven his ability to impactfully portray this concept in the previous episodes he storyboarded (look no further than the very first episode of the series), so it’s only natural for it to shine in this last episode as well. What I particularly liked about episode 28 though, is how seamless and dynamic the transitions between present and past were.
Although it was really well done, featuring an especially great art direction (which already is a major strength of Frieren‘s production as a whole), I’m leaving Wirbel‘s backstory aside to focus the attention on two specific scenes, one of which has got to be one of the best and most creative transitions I’ve seen in recent memory.
Using a simple physical movement to transition between both space and time sounds like a really clever and compelling idea, and it really is clever and compelling even in practice. Initiating the transition to a flashback, so a “movement in time”, with an actual “movement in space” with Frieren jumping down the wall she landed on, transferring her momentum to a snappy cut to the actual flashback as her boot touches the ground, is one of those little touches that prove how deeply refined this show is even in small details; the effort to design such an interesting way to transition to a flashback instead of relying on more conventional methods (let’s say, for example, a simple fade-in) conveys nothing but a heartfelt passion towards both the source material and the medium of animation.
Comparison between the two frames where the transition happens
Moving on to a more proper representation of the passage of time, the last scene before the credits start rolling is the perfect example. We’ve certainly seen something like this many times before throughout the previous episodes (especially in the first cour), but a parallel between the present and the past for Frieren is the utmost perfect way to end this series, both thematically (or course) and as its “visual identity”.
When I said “seamless transition” before, this is exactly what I was talking about; the immersion of Frieren as she recalls her memories is beautifully portrayed as the background transitions to the one where the flashback takes place, while Frieren herself is the only element on the screen that does not change. This is made even more clear with the shot of the hero’s party directly paralleling the one of Frieren, Fern and Stark of a few cuts prior. The connection between past and present is strongly present in Frieren‘s narrative as much as it is visually, showing how much (and yet, at times, how little) things have changed; these kind of parallel shots have been a recurring visual element throughout the series and are indeed very effective at depicting that.
Hearing Himmel sharing his words of wisdom for one last time feels somewhat nostalgic already, but after a quick overview on how some of the other characters are going on with their lives as the ending theme plays, we’re back to the present, where our main party sets off for a new journey.
It’s gonna be hard to fill the gap Sousou no Frieren left in my weekly anime consumption, but at least its final episode was truly remarkable as much as the whole series was, encapsulating all its core elements on both a thematic and visual perspective. Really a delightful journey, packed with soul and passion, like we haven’t experienced in a while, but let’s keep this goodbye quick, since as Himmel said, it would be embarrassing when we (if ever) get to meet again.