Saturday, March 10, 2012
MANGA CORNER: BILLY BAT BY NAOKI URASAWA, VOLS. 7 AND 8
I didn't review Billy Bat vol. 7 when it came out, because I didn't have much to say about it. The confrontation that volumes four through six had been leading up to took place, and as I had predicted it wasn't a decisive showdown. It didn't even seem to advance the plot much. Nor did Urasawa introduce any new surprises in volume seven. In fact, I was a little disappointed when I finished it. Much of the preceding volumes' tension had been dissipated. Now that I think about it, volume seven could be seen as the end of an arc. (By my count, the third, after what might be called the First Modern-day Japan Arc and the Ninja Arc.)
Now that I've read volume eight, I have a lot more to talk about. On the one hand, this volume, along with the last, binds the various plot strands more closely together. In volume seven, we learned why Billy Bat wanted the interracial couple to get together and the true importance of that whole plotline. In this volume, we learn that the Bat's choice of Jackie, the Japanese-American girl introduced in volume six, was not random: she turns out to be indirectly connected to both the interracial couple plot and the ninja plot. (One advantage of writing about an entity manipulating history over millenia is that it makes what would otherwise be unbelievable coincidences more plausible.)
Things are being pulled together in other ways as well. Kevin returns to Japan, very reluctantly, and we again see the veteran manga-ka from whom he had unconsciously plaigarized Billy Bat. This manga-ka, who now sports an enormous bushy white beard and mustache, is revealed to have a more direct connection to the plot. And once again, many of the characters seem to be converging on a single location.
But in the middle of all this, Urasawa throws yet another curve ball, which may turn out to be his wildest yet. Chuck Calkin introduces a time machine into his version of the Billy Bat comic, and this is followed by a several page-long explanation of the fourth dimension. No real time machine appears in this volume. Nor, as far as I can recall, has there been any hint that the Bat, or anybody else, can travel in time. But the laws of dramaturgy now require that an actual time machine, or at least the potentiality for one, should eventually show up.
Aside from that, the biggest novelty in this volume is a new bad guy who's in Japan to buy up land for a Japanese version of Billyland (an obvious allusion to Tokyo Disneyland). This guy is genuinely scary, in part because he appears so affable.
I was going to reread the entire series so far before posting this, which might have given me more to say. But I can't find the vocabulary notes I made for some of the volumes. Once I've found them, maybe I'll write another post on vols. 7 and 8. Anyway, I'm now excited again to see the next volume.
Billy Bat is published by Koudansha (Japan). Both vols are 196 pp. and cost 600 yen. The ISBNs are 978-4-06-387037-4 (vol. 7) and 978-4-387078-7 (vol. 8).
Here are the amazon.co.jp pages for vols. 7 and 8.
Reviews of earlier volumes are here, here, here, here and here.
(I had jotted some notes about vol. 7 when it came out, and one of these was: "If you can read Japanese, DO NOT look at the lower left portion of the front cover (to be precise, the part of the obi which is above that portion of the cover). In large characters is printed a major spoiler not just for previous volumes of the series, but for vol. 7 itself." To which I would now add, on looking at the book again, don't look at the back-cover obi either, or at the English-language blurb under it.)
(0) comments
I didn't review Billy Bat vol. 7 when it came out, because I didn't have much to say about it. The confrontation that volumes four through six had been leading up to took place, and as I had predicted it wasn't a decisive showdown. It didn't even seem to advance the plot much. Nor did Urasawa introduce any new surprises in volume seven. In fact, I was a little disappointed when I finished it. Much of the preceding volumes' tension had been dissipated. Now that I think about it, volume seven could be seen as the end of an arc. (By my count, the third, after what might be called the First Modern-day Japan Arc and the Ninja Arc.)
Now that I've read volume eight, I have a lot more to talk about. On the one hand, this volume, along with the last, binds the various plot strands more closely together. In volume seven, we learned why Billy Bat wanted the interracial couple to get together and the true importance of that whole plotline. In this volume, we learn that the Bat's choice of Jackie, the Japanese-American girl introduced in volume six, was not random: she turns out to be indirectly connected to both the interracial couple plot and the ninja plot. (One advantage of writing about an entity manipulating history over millenia is that it makes what would otherwise be unbelievable coincidences more plausible.)
Things are being pulled together in other ways as well. Kevin returns to Japan, very reluctantly, and we again see the veteran manga-ka from whom he had unconsciously plaigarized Billy Bat. This manga-ka, who now sports an enormous bushy white beard and mustache, is revealed to have a more direct connection to the plot. And once again, many of the characters seem to be converging on a single location.
But in the middle of all this, Urasawa throws yet another curve ball, which may turn out to be his wildest yet. Chuck Calkin introduces a time machine into his version of the Billy Bat comic, and this is followed by a several page-long explanation of the fourth dimension. No real time machine appears in this volume. Nor, as far as I can recall, has there been any hint that the Bat, or anybody else, can travel in time. But the laws of dramaturgy now require that an actual time machine, or at least the potentiality for one, should eventually show up.
Aside from that, the biggest novelty in this volume is a new bad guy who's in Japan to buy up land for a Japanese version of Billyland (an obvious allusion to Tokyo Disneyland). This guy is genuinely scary, in part because he appears so affable.
I was going to reread the entire series so far before posting this, which might have given me more to say. But I can't find the vocabulary notes I made for some of the volumes. Once I've found them, maybe I'll write another post on vols. 7 and 8. Anyway, I'm now excited again to see the next volume.
Billy Bat is published by Koudansha (Japan). Both vols are 196 pp. and cost 600 yen. The ISBNs are 978-4-06-387037-4 (vol. 7) and 978-4-387078-7 (vol. 8).
Here are the amazon.co.jp pages for vols. 7 and 8.
Reviews of earlier volumes are here, here, here, here and here.
(I had jotted some notes about vol. 7 when it came out, and one of these was: "If you can read Japanese, DO NOT look at the lower left portion of the front cover (to be precise, the part of the obi which is above that portion of the cover). In large characters is printed a major spoiler not just for previous volumes of the series, but for vol. 7 itself." To which I would now add, on looking at the book again, don't look at the back-cover obi either, or at the English-language blurb under it.)
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
MANGA MOVEABLE FEAST: THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE BY USAMARU FURUYA, VOLS. 1 AND 2
The Furuya manga currently available in the U.S. don't do justice to his abilities as a writer. Genkaku Picasso is one of the worst works of Furuya I have read, while Lychee Light Club and No Longer Human are both adaptations of works written by others, unlike the majority of Furuya's works. Those who only know Furuya through these works may conclude that he's a poor writer when not adapting someone else, while even those familiar with masterpieces like The Music of Marie and "Book of the Moon" may think he's lost his touch. But in The Children's Crusade [Innosan Shounen Juujigun], one of Furuya's most recent works (the third and final volume has not even been published in Japan yet), which is an original story, his writing is as powerful as ever.
Genkaku Picasso was an attempt to create a shounen manga which avoided the cliches of shounen manga. The Children's Crusade, on the other hand, while not shounen, engages with shounen manga in a different way: it takes a familiar shounen scenario -- a group of teenage boys fights for justice armed with idealism, an indomitable spirit, and the power of friendship -- and shows it leading to disaster.
Based upon a real event, though one about which little is known, The Children's Crusade begins in a town in Northern France in 1212. Nicholas*, an impulsive and hotheaded twelve-year-old, longs more than anything to be a crusading knight like his father, but given his poverty and lack of social standing this seems impossible. To show his determination, he goes so far as to carve a large cross into his forehead with a knife. (He bears the scar prominently throughout the two volumes.) His friend Etienne is also twelve, but their personalities are complete opposites. Etienne is a gentle, devout, contemplative shepherd.
One day while tending his sheep, Etienne finds a letter and an unusual-looking trumpet. Then a vision of the crucified Jesus appears to him and tells him that he has been chosen and that the trumpet's sound will lead him to Jerusalem. When he returns to the town and publicly describes his experience, Nicholas acclaims him as a Savior, and declares that he will accompany Etienne to Jerusalem. Soon Etienne's pilgrimage has become a crusade to "liberate" Jerusalem from the Muslims, led by Nicholas, who declares that nobody over fourteen is allowed to participate, since previous crusades have failed because the faith of adults is too weak.
Spurred by a rumor that those who reach Jerusalem will have any wish granted, a diverse group of boys enrolls, including a puppeteer; an intellectually-minded, skeptical merchant's son; a leper; and one of the bandits who had attacked the village, whom the villagers had captured and are abusing as revenge. These latter two are allowed to come at the insistence of Etienne, who publicly embraces both of them. (To be sure, it's unrealistic that all these types would be found in the same small town, but it helps keep the secondary characters from blurring into each other, a common problem in stories with lots of characters of approximately the same age and sex.)
Soon after they set out, they meet Hugo, a member of the powerful Knights Templar. After he witnesses Etienne perform a miracle, he not only declares the Children's Crusade under the Templars' official protection, but accompanies it himself. From then on, in each town they pass through the Crusaders receive a rapturous reception, in good part due to Hugo's advance work. In each town Etienne miraculously heals the sick and injured. And in each town, they gain both generous donations and new recruits, some as young as eight, whose parents are eager to entrust them to the "miracle boy." Nicholas is living out his dream and practically worships Hugo, but Etienne grows concerned at the increasingly martial tone Nicholas's rhetoric has taken under Hugo's influence.
The crusaders have plenty of friendship and perseverance, the first two parts of Shounen Jump's famous formula. But this won't bring victory, the third part of the formula. Furuya raises the crusaders' and reader's hopes only to crush them. Legend has it that the historical Children's Crusaders were sold into slavery by the ship captains they trusted to carry them across the sea. I don't know how The Children's Crusade ends, but they, too, have their innocence and naivete betrayed. And the end of the second volume promises much worse to come.
One of The Children's Crusade's chief strong points is characterization. With Etienne, Furuya succeeds in one of the most difficult tasks for a writer: convincingly depicting a character who is good to the point of saintliness but not sanctimonious. Nicholas's characterization is also very well done. The other "apostles" receive less attention from Furuya, but he succeeds in giving almost all of them distinct personalities.
The characters' lively, expressive faces as drawn by Furuya contribute substantially to the characterizations. And the art in general is excellent, both in visual storytelling and page design, and is frequently cinematic in scope and detail. Furuya isn't particularly well known for his action scenes, but the ones here are dynamic.
In manga and anime, Christianity is generally treated very superficially (e.g. Evangelion and Hellsing). In contrast, Furuya gives a convincing depiction of a devout Christian in 13th-century France. And in general, even though Furuya takes substantial liberties with the few known facts about the historical Children's Crusade, his setting feels authentic. This makes it all the more disappointing when, in the last few chapters of volume two, Furuya introduces a frequent cliche in modern-day works set in the Middle Ages, the female heretic with modern attitudes. But so far, at least, this is a minor flaw.
I would rank the first two volumes of The Children's Crusade below The Music of Marie and "Book of the Moon," simply because it lacks the soaring imagination of those two works. But it's still an outstanding series.
Like The Music of Marie, the volumes of The Children's Crusade are not numbered, but labelled by the kanji for up, middle and down. Each of the first two volumes is 288 pages long and is published by Ohta Press. Their ISBNs are 978-4-7783-2086-3 and 978-4-7783-2105-5, and they cost 1200 yen each. Their amazon.co.jp pages are here and here.
The Furuya Manga Moveable Feast Archives, along with links to other reviews of Furuya, can be found here.
*The Japanese is "Nikora"; I'm guessing at the romanization.
(1) comments
The Furuya manga currently available in the U.S. don't do justice to his abilities as a writer. Genkaku Picasso is one of the worst works of Furuya I have read, while Lychee Light Club and No Longer Human are both adaptations of works written by others, unlike the majority of Furuya's works. Those who only know Furuya through these works may conclude that he's a poor writer when not adapting someone else, while even those familiar with masterpieces like The Music of Marie and "Book of the Moon" may think he's lost his touch. But in The Children's Crusade [Innosan Shounen Juujigun], one of Furuya's most recent works (the third and final volume has not even been published in Japan yet), which is an original story, his writing is as powerful as ever.
Genkaku Picasso was an attempt to create a shounen manga which avoided the cliches of shounen manga. The Children's Crusade, on the other hand, while not shounen, engages with shounen manga in a different way: it takes a familiar shounen scenario -- a group of teenage boys fights for justice armed with idealism, an indomitable spirit, and the power of friendship -- and shows it leading to disaster.
Based upon a real event, though one about which little is known, The Children's Crusade begins in a town in Northern France in 1212. Nicholas*, an impulsive and hotheaded twelve-year-old, longs more than anything to be a crusading knight like his father, but given his poverty and lack of social standing this seems impossible. To show his determination, he goes so far as to carve a large cross into his forehead with a knife. (He bears the scar prominently throughout the two volumes.) His friend Etienne is also twelve, but their personalities are complete opposites. Etienne is a gentle, devout, contemplative shepherd.
One day while tending his sheep, Etienne finds a letter and an unusual-looking trumpet. Then a vision of the crucified Jesus appears to him and tells him that he has been chosen and that the trumpet's sound will lead him to Jerusalem. When he returns to the town and publicly describes his experience, Nicholas acclaims him as a Savior, and declares that he will accompany Etienne to Jerusalem. Soon Etienne's pilgrimage has become a crusade to "liberate" Jerusalem from the Muslims, led by Nicholas, who declares that nobody over fourteen is allowed to participate, since previous crusades have failed because the faith of adults is too weak.
Spurred by a rumor that those who reach Jerusalem will have any wish granted, a diverse group of boys enrolls, including a puppeteer; an intellectually-minded, skeptical merchant's son; a leper; and one of the bandits who had attacked the village, whom the villagers had captured and are abusing as revenge. These latter two are allowed to come at the insistence of Etienne, who publicly embraces both of them. (To be sure, it's unrealistic that all these types would be found in the same small town, but it helps keep the secondary characters from blurring into each other, a common problem in stories with lots of characters of approximately the same age and sex.)
Soon after they set out, they meet Hugo, a member of the powerful Knights Templar. After he witnesses Etienne perform a miracle, he not only declares the Children's Crusade under the Templars' official protection, but accompanies it himself. From then on, in each town they pass through the Crusaders receive a rapturous reception, in good part due to Hugo's advance work. In each town Etienne miraculously heals the sick and injured. And in each town, they gain both generous donations and new recruits, some as young as eight, whose parents are eager to entrust them to the "miracle boy." Nicholas is living out his dream and practically worships Hugo, but Etienne grows concerned at the increasingly martial tone Nicholas's rhetoric has taken under Hugo's influence.
The crusaders have plenty of friendship and perseverance, the first two parts of Shounen Jump's famous formula. But this won't bring victory, the third part of the formula. Furuya raises the crusaders' and reader's hopes only to crush them. Legend has it that the historical Children's Crusaders were sold into slavery by the ship captains they trusted to carry them across the sea. I don't know how The Children's Crusade ends, but they, too, have their innocence and naivete betrayed. And the end of the second volume promises much worse to come.
One of The Children's Crusade's chief strong points is characterization. With Etienne, Furuya succeeds in one of the most difficult tasks for a writer: convincingly depicting a character who is good to the point of saintliness but not sanctimonious. Nicholas's characterization is also very well done. The other "apostles" receive less attention from Furuya, but he succeeds in giving almost all of them distinct personalities.
The characters' lively, expressive faces as drawn by Furuya contribute substantially to the characterizations. And the art in general is excellent, both in visual storytelling and page design, and is frequently cinematic in scope and detail. Furuya isn't particularly well known for his action scenes, but the ones here are dynamic.
In manga and anime, Christianity is generally treated very superficially (e.g. Evangelion and Hellsing). In contrast, Furuya gives a convincing depiction of a devout Christian in 13th-century France. And in general, even though Furuya takes substantial liberties with the few known facts about the historical Children's Crusade, his setting feels authentic. This makes it all the more disappointing when, in the last few chapters of volume two, Furuya introduces a frequent cliche in modern-day works set in the Middle Ages, the female heretic with modern attitudes. But so far, at least, this is a minor flaw.
I would rank the first two volumes of The Children's Crusade below The Music of Marie and "Book of the Moon," simply because it lacks the soaring imagination of those two works. But it's still an outstanding series.
Like The Music of Marie, the volumes of The Children's Crusade are not numbered, but labelled by the kanji for up, middle and down. Each of the first two volumes is 288 pages long and is published by Ohta Press. Their ISBNs are 978-4-7783-2086-3 and 978-4-7783-2105-5, and they cost 1200 yen each. Their amazon.co.jp pages are here and here.
The Furuya Manga Moveable Feast Archives, along with links to other reviews of Furuya, can be found here.
*The Japanese is "Nikora"; I'm guessing at the romanization.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
BOOK CORNER: A LOVESOME THING BY PATRICIA S. BOWNE
When Patricia S. Bowne offered me a review copy of A Lovesome Thing, the sequel to Advice from Pigeons, I accepted readily. I'd enjoyed the earlier book and expected to enjoy the second. Just as important, since I'd already reviewed the first book, I assumed that writing a review of A Lovesome Thing would be easy. That proved not to be the case. In part, that's because things usually turn out to be harder to write than I expect. But mainly, it's because A Lovesome Thing turned out to be quite different from Advice from Pigeons in several ways. Most importantly, it's much darker.
Although most of A Lovesome Thing's main characters are academics, it's not really an academic novel in the way that Advice from Pigeons was; the academics appear primarily in their public service role. And most of the main characters of Advice from Pigeons are absent from A Lovesome Thing, the only exception being postmodern feminist demonologist Teddy Whin, who is again a major character here. The other academic protagonists were secondary characters in the earlier book. One of them is Bill Navanax, the angry alchemist from Advice from Pigeons, who is actually happy at the start of the book, because Neil Torecki has become his lover and moved in with him. Neil, also a major character, is happy himself, except for a compulsion to paint pictures of Bill's ex-lover being burned at the stake, a compulsion he has kept hidden from Bill. Cham Ligalla the exorcist also returns, and is summoned to deal with a demon who possesses people and makes the nasty demon from Advice from Pigeons look like Mr. Rogers.
There's a new major character as well, Father Rameau, a priest of the Church of the Sacred Flame, who unlike the others has no connection with the Royal Academy. Through him we learn about religion and the gods in Bowne's world, something that didn't appear in Advice from Pigeons. There are many gods, all of whom are in some sense manifestations of a single divine power, although believers worship only one god at a time. And the gods are tangible, at least occasionally, so that when a murdered woman is found in Father Rameau's church, it's natural for a policeman to ask Rameau "'when was the last time you saw this god?'"
There is actually not much humor in A Lovesome Thing, especially compared to Advice from Pigeons. This may be partly because we're more familiar with Bowne's world, so there are fewer opportunities for the incongruity-based humor that enlivened Advice from Pigeons. But mainly, A Lovesome Thing is a much darker book, as mentioned above. The demon mentioned above likes to make its victims torture themselves, tortures that are graphically described. Much of the action takes place in a truly hellish garden. And while in the earlier book Rho's basic problem was his mix of arrogance and insecurity, A Lovesome Thing explores much darker regions of the human heart.
A Lovesome Thing is well-written, and the characters are complex -- more so than in Advice from Pigeons -- and well-drawn. Conversely, the plot in A Lovesome Thing is weaker than in Advice from Pigeons. Father Rameau's story in particular feels undeveloped and doesn't add much besides an opportunity to convey information about religion in the world of Osyth. The plot in A Lovesome Thing is also harder to follow, and the fact that there are multiple copies of several characters doesn't help things.
A Lovesome Thing's main problem, though, is that after the grimness of most of the book, its happy ending is unconvincing. After Cham has finished expelling a possessing demon from its victim, who was forced by the demon to mutilate himself horribly and is now dying, "She heard the enchanter's voice again, lying to [the victim]. Bad things happened, the voice said, but what mattered was how you faced them. Whether you had been brave and kind. And if you were brave and kind, it said, everything turned out for the best and everyone you loved would be safe." (135)
The book's ending appears to show that the enchanter's "silly lie" (135) is true after all. But looking at the book as a whole, Cham's original judgment seems more accurate.
Despite these reservations, I would recommend the book to those who want to know more about the world of Osyth, or the characters. But don't expect a fun read like Advice from Pigeons.
Advice from Pigeons is available as an ebook from Double Dragon Publishing and Amazon.
[Disclaimer: I received a free e-copy of the book from the author.]
(0) comments
When Patricia S. Bowne offered me a review copy of A Lovesome Thing, the sequel to Advice from Pigeons, I accepted readily. I'd enjoyed the earlier book and expected to enjoy the second. Just as important, since I'd already reviewed the first book, I assumed that writing a review of A Lovesome Thing would be easy. That proved not to be the case. In part, that's because things usually turn out to be harder to write than I expect. But mainly, it's because A Lovesome Thing turned out to be quite different from Advice from Pigeons in several ways. Most importantly, it's much darker.
Although most of A Lovesome Thing's main characters are academics, it's not really an academic novel in the way that Advice from Pigeons was; the academics appear primarily in their public service role. And most of the main characters of Advice from Pigeons are absent from A Lovesome Thing, the only exception being postmodern feminist demonologist Teddy Whin, who is again a major character here. The other academic protagonists were secondary characters in the earlier book. One of them is Bill Navanax, the angry alchemist from Advice from Pigeons, who is actually happy at the start of the book, because Neil Torecki has become his lover and moved in with him. Neil, also a major character, is happy himself, except for a compulsion to paint pictures of Bill's ex-lover being burned at the stake, a compulsion he has kept hidden from Bill. Cham Ligalla the exorcist also returns, and is summoned to deal with a demon who possesses people and makes the nasty demon from Advice from Pigeons look like Mr. Rogers.
There's a new major character as well, Father Rameau, a priest of the Church of the Sacred Flame, who unlike the others has no connection with the Royal Academy. Through him we learn about religion and the gods in Bowne's world, something that didn't appear in Advice from Pigeons. There are many gods, all of whom are in some sense manifestations of a single divine power, although believers worship only one god at a time. And the gods are tangible, at least occasionally, so that when a murdered woman is found in Father Rameau's church, it's natural for a policeman to ask Rameau "'when was the last time you saw this god?'"
There is actually not much humor in A Lovesome Thing, especially compared to Advice from Pigeons. This may be partly because we're more familiar with Bowne's world, so there are fewer opportunities for the incongruity-based humor that enlivened Advice from Pigeons. But mainly, A Lovesome Thing is a much darker book, as mentioned above. The demon mentioned above likes to make its victims torture themselves, tortures that are graphically described. Much of the action takes place in a truly hellish garden. And while in the earlier book Rho's basic problem was his mix of arrogance and insecurity, A Lovesome Thing explores much darker regions of the human heart.
A Lovesome Thing is well-written, and the characters are complex -- more so than in Advice from Pigeons -- and well-drawn. Conversely, the plot in A Lovesome Thing is weaker than in Advice from Pigeons. Father Rameau's story in particular feels undeveloped and doesn't add much besides an opportunity to convey information about religion in the world of Osyth. The plot in A Lovesome Thing is also harder to follow, and the fact that there are multiple copies of several characters doesn't help things.
A Lovesome Thing's main problem, though, is that after the grimness of most of the book, its happy ending is unconvincing. After Cham has finished expelling a possessing demon from its victim, who was forced by the demon to mutilate himself horribly and is now dying, "She heard the enchanter's voice again, lying to [the victim]. Bad things happened, the voice said, but what mattered was how you faced them. Whether you had been brave and kind. And if you were brave and kind, it said, everything turned out for the best and everyone you loved would be safe." (135)
The book's ending appears to show that the enchanter's "silly lie" (135) is true after all. But looking at the book as a whole, Cham's original judgment seems more accurate.
Despite these reservations, I would recommend the book to those who want to know more about the world of Osyth, or the characters. But don't expect a fun read like Advice from Pigeons.
Advice from Pigeons is available as an ebook from Double Dragon Publishing and Amazon.
[Disclaimer: I received a free e-copy of the book from the author.]
Saturday, August 27, 2011
BOOK CORNER: ADVICE FROM PIGEONS BY PATRICIA S. BOWNE
Advice from Pigeons is the first novel in a nascent series which Bowne describes as "academic satire and fantasy for faculty" (though the satire is so gentle that it's usually unnoticeable, and you don't need to be a faculty member to enjoy the book). According to Bowne's website, a second novel has just been released, and more novels are forthcoming. There have also been several short stories, published in small-press magazines, which I haven't read; but most of the novel's potential readers won't have read them either. Much of the book's originality and pleasure comes from the world Bowne has created, so I'll discuss that first.
Advice from Pigeons takes place in a world which is not ours, but very much like our present-day world, except that magic is commonplace and is integrated into everyday life. Users of magic are divided into five classes, although only two of these classes appear in more than bit parts in the book. Wizards build things. Sorcerors heal. Alchemists can change the laws of nature for everything, everywhere, but they have to get approval from their Guild on pain of death, which can be a headache: as one alchemist complains, "People let nature get away with murder, but as soon as they realize a person is designing it, they start to think he ought to be able to please everyone." (p. 282) Practitioners of the Arcane Arts "explore the links between human creativity and the arcane." Magicians, who are the principal subject of Advice from Pigeons, study the spiritual world and the principles of magic, though that doesn't mean that they can't do magic themselves.
Magicians are themselves divided into various sub-classes, according to the type of spiritual beings they study, among other things. In Advice from Pigeons we see magicians who study imps, vampires and incubi (the study of incubi is known as "venery" and its practitioners are referred to as "lechers"). But the focus is on demonologists. Every weekday morning the collective faculty of the Demonology Department of the Royal Academy at Osyth gathers and attempts to summon a demon. Demons in Advice from Pigeons' world don't come from Hell, but they're still dangerous to deal with, not so much because of their capacity for violence (though there is that) as because of their ability to covertly influence one's mind.
We don't learn much about the actual mechanics of magic, but charms seem to work through persuasion, either logical or emotional. The Demonology Department uses "charms of discourse" -- philosophical arguments -- to persuade demons to take on bodily form, and these charms only work until demons learn how to refute them. And the Department's exorcist banishes demons by being dismissive, which she's very good at.
The book takes place almost entirely in its world's version of academia, which is almost exactly like our academia, except with magic. Anyone who's gone to an American university, or read a novel set in one, will find the Royal Academy at Osyth and its faculty instantly recognizeable. The wider academic world, too, will be familiar (although academic feuds between demonologists can be deadly). Unlike many academic novels, though, the faculty of the demonology department are all competent and, with one exception, content with their positions.
The exception, Hiram Rho, is the book's main protagonist. Rho had a troubled adolescence. He lived on the streets, scavenging and selling his body, until he met a magician who took him in and introduced him to the academic world. The academy where he did his graduate work was ancient and prestigious. Now, fresh out of grad school, he alternates between looking down on his new colleagues at Osyth as provincial, bourgeois mediocrities and feeling inadequate to his new position. This makes him easy prey for the blandishments of what turns out to be a particularly unpleasant demon. Rho is the best character in the book: his personality and his actions throughout most of the book would make him a villain in most books, but I found him sympathetic, even while I cringed at his mistakes and poor judgment.
The book's other major plot strand revolves around Warren Oldham, the head of the department, and Russell Cinea, the department's top magician. Both are suffering from midlife crises, and midway through the book their souls depart from their bodies, leaving their bodies walking and talking but without personality and technically dead (and therefore without health insurance). Warren' wife Lillian, one of the few non-academic characters, and Teddy Whin, Russell's colleague and friend (who enjoys pointing out the phallocentrism in Russell's charms of discourse), together struggle to return the magicians' errant souls. I didn't find this plot strand compelling, although the descriptions of the magicians' souls' experiences outside their bodies were interesting.
Of the other characters, the most interesting is an angry alchemist named Navanax (the one quoted earlier). His story is left unresolved, though, evidently being saved for another book.
Advice from Pigeons is fun, though lightweight. As mentioned above, much of the fun comes from the way its world smoothly blends magic into everyday life. It has flaws: because the mechanics of magic are only described vaguely, the significance of what seems intended to be a major plot development is unclear. But I recommend it, and look forward to reading future books in the series.
Advice from Pigeons is available as an ebook from Double Dragon Publishing and Amazon.
[Disclaimer: I received a free e-copy of the book from the author.]
EDITED TO ADD: I forgot to mention that you can read the first chapter for free on Bowne's website. You can also read the first chapter of the second book.
(1) comments
Advice from Pigeons is the first novel in a nascent series which Bowne describes as "academic satire and fantasy for faculty" (though the satire is so gentle that it's usually unnoticeable, and you don't need to be a faculty member to enjoy the book). According to Bowne's website, a second novel has just been released, and more novels are forthcoming. There have also been several short stories, published in small-press magazines, which I haven't read; but most of the novel's potential readers won't have read them either. Much of the book's originality and pleasure comes from the world Bowne has created, so I'll discuss that first.
Advice from Pigeons takes place in a world which is not ours, but very much like our present-day world, except that magic is commonplace and is integrated into everyday life. Users of magic are divided into five classes, although only two of these classes appear in more than bit parts in the book. Wizards build things. Sorcerors heal. Alchemists can change the laws of nature for everything, everywhere, but they have to get approval from their Guild on pain of death, which can be a headache: as one alchemist complains, "People let nature get away with murder, but as soon as they realize a person is designing it, they start to think he ought to be able to please everyone." (p. 282) Practitioners of the Arcane Arts "explore the links between human creativity and the arcane." Magicians, who are the principal subject of Advice from Pigeons, study the spiritual world and the principles of magic, though that doesn't mean that they can't do magic themselves.
Magicians are themselves divided into various sub-classes, according to the type of spiritual beings they study, among other things. In Advice from Pigeons we see magicians who study imps, vampires and incubi (the study of incubi is known as "venery" and its practitioners are referred to as "lechers"). But the focus is on demonologists. Every weekday morning the collective faculty of the Demonology Department of the Royal Academy at Osyth gathers and attempts to summon a demon. Demons in Advice from Pigeons' world don't come from Hell, but they're still dangerous to deal with, not so much because of their capacity for violence (though there is that) as because of their ability to covertly influence one's mind.
We don't learn much about the actual mechanics of magic, but charms seem to work through persuasion, either logical or emotional. The Demonology Department uses "charms of discourse" -- philosophical arguments -- to persuade demons to take on bodily form, and these charms only work until demons learn how to refute them. And the Department's exorcist banishes demons by being dismissive, which she's very good at.
The book takes place almost entirely in its world's version of academia, which is almost exactly like our academia, except with magic. Anyone who's gone to an American university, or read a novel set in one, will find the Royal Academy at Osyth and its faculty instantly recognizeable. The wider academic world, too, will be familiar (although academic feuds between demonologists can be deadly). Unlike many academic novels, though, the faculty of the demonology department are all competent and, with one exception, content with their positions.
The exception, Hiram Rho, is the book's main protagonist. Rho had a troubled adolescence. He lived on the streets, scavenging and selling his body, until he met a magician who took him in and introduced him to the academic world. The academy where he did his graduate work was ancient and prestigious. Now, fresh out of grad school, he alternates between looking down on his new colleagues at Osyth as provincial, bourgeois mediocrities and feeling inadequate to his new position. This makes him easy prey for the blandishments of what turns out to be a particularly unpleasant demon. Rho is the best character in the book: his personality and his actions throughout most of the book would make him a villain in most books, but I found him sympathetic, even while I cringed at his mistakes and poor judgment.
The book's other major plot strand revolves around Warren Oldham, the head of the department, and Russell Cinea, the department's top magician. Both are suffering from midlife crises, and midway through the book their souls depart from their bodies, leaving their bodies walking and talking but without personality and technically dead (and therefore without health insurance). Warren' wife Lillian, one of the few non-academic characters, and Teddy Whin, Russell's colleague and friend (who enjoys pointing out the phallocentrism in Russell's charms of discourse), together struggle to return the magicians' errant souls. I didn't find this plot strand compelling, although the descriptions of the magicians' souls' experiences outside their bodies were interesting.
Of the other characters, the most interesting is an angry alchemist named Navanax (the one quoted earlier). His story is left unresolved, though, evidently being saved for another book.
Advice from Pigeons is fun, though lightweight. As mentioned above, much of the fun comes from the way its world smoothly blends magic into everyday life. It has flaws: because the mechanics of magic are only described vaguely, the significance of what seems intended to be a major plot development is unclear. But I recommend it, and look forward to reading future books in the series.
Advice from Pigeons is available as an ebook from Double Dragon Publishing and Amazon.
[Disclaimer: I received a free e-copy of the book from the author.]
EDITED TO ADD: I forgot to mention that you can read the first chapter for free on Bowne's website. You can also read the first chapter of the second book.
Friday, July 29, 2011
FRUITS BASKET MANGA MOVEABLE FEAST: A PERFECT MOTHER?*
Among other things, Fruits Basket is a relentless catalogue of the ways parents can damage their children. From major characters like Kyo, Yuki and Akito, through secondary characters like Rin and Momiji, to minor characters like Machi, character after character suffers the scars of their parents' indifference or active dislike. But there's one shining counter-example: Tohru's mother Kyoko. Far from messing Tohru up, she made her into the good, loving person she is. In fact, Kyoko is a model parent. At least, she appears to be one during most of the series.
There's one discordant element from the start, though: Tohru's constant self-denigration. Even as she's unselfishly helping everyone, she feels guilty for not being unselfish enough. My favorite example is the time when, after visiting Rin (who doesn't even like her) in the hospital, she condemns herself for having forgotten for a moment about her goal of lifting the curse. If Kyoko was so wonderful, why was Tohru so bent on punishing herself?
The first hint that Kyoko was not as perfect as Tohru and Arisa's recollections made her out to be is Kyo's flashback of Kyoko completely freaking out when Tohru had gotten lost. But it's not until volume sixteen that we get a more complete picture of Kyoko and Tohru's relationship. In another flashback, Kyoko tells Kyo that after Tohru's father Katsuya had died, she (Kyoko) had been plunged into despair, and was on the verge of killing herself so that she could be with Katsuya again. At the last moment, she heard a kid yelling "Mom!" and was reminded of Tohru (then a very young child) and realized that she had been neglecting her. She rushed home, apologized in tears to Tohru and embraced her. After telling this to Kyo, Kyoko says: "Maybe the world doesn't need me. But there's still one person who's kind enough to need me. I only need that to live."
A heartwarming story with an affirmative moral, at least on the surface. But when you look more closely, there's a darker side. Whether she realizes it or not, Kyoko is in effect imposing upon Tohru the responsibility of keeping her alive, which is a terrible burden for a parent to place upon her young child.
Am I reading too much into this scene? Am I being overly cynical? I might have thought so if not for volume nineteen, where we see this dynamic from Tohru's side. At Kyoko's grave, Kyo meets Tohru's grandfather, who in the course of conversation asks him if he knows why Tohru speaks in such a polite manner. When Kyo says no, Tohru's grandfather tells him that she's imitating her father. At Katsuya's funeral, she heard some relatives saying that because she didn't look like Katsuya, she would be "no consolation" to Kyoko. When Kyoko fell into depression, Tohru asked her grandfather: "Daddy went somewhere far away, didn't he? Will Mommy go there too? Is Dad calling her? She's been sad for a long time. She won't talk to me. Is she sad because I don't look like Dad? What can I do to be like him? Will Mom get better if I'm just like him? Will she stay here?"** Since Kyoko's return, Tohru has been talking like her father.
Pondering this conversation, Kyo asks Tohru herself if her father looked like her. Nervously and with a forced smile, she tells him that they didn't look too much alike, but everybody said that they talked alike, even her mother. Then, in one of the most heartbreaking moments in a series full of heartbreaking moments, Tohru says "That's a lie.... I'm just mimicking the way he talked."*** She had been afraid that her father would take her mother away. and to try to hold on to her, she had imitated her father.
When I read this, everything about Tohru's character fell into place. Ever since her father died, she had been afraid that her mother would go away -- i.e., kill herself. And she had been continuously making an effort to keep her with her. She was always cheerful on the outside so that Kyoko would want to stay. She was unselfish to the point of abnegation because any demands of her own might drive Kyoko away. And she constantly felt guilty because the real Tohru wouldn't be able to keep Kyoko from going away, as she wasn't after Katsuya died. Even after Kyoko died (which she blamed herself for) the patterns of behavior she had learned continued. Without meaning to, Kyoko profoundly damaged her, even though she loved her.
Once I realized this, I saw some of the earlier scenes in a new light. For instance, it was now clear to me that for a schoolgirl to live alone in a tent when she has friends who would gladly put her up, so as not to bother them, isn't an endearing quirk but a sign of serious psychological problems (something I should have realized before).
Of course, Tohru is genuinely kind and good, and Kyoko is responsible for that too. Kyoko isn't a bad person, but in Fruits Basket even good people keep hurting each other without meaning to. Though Takaya gives her characters happy endings, her vision in Fruits Basket is hardly a cheerful one.
*This post may come off as a rebuttal to Kristin Bomba's contribution to the Manga Moveable Feast. I do have some disagreements with what Kistin writes about Tohru and Kyoko, but I've had these ideas for a long time, and I had decided to write them up for the MMF before I read Kristin's post.
**In the Tokyopop edition, there are quotation marks around each of these sentences, but not in the Japanese edition.
***I've used my own translation here. The Japanese, for those who want to check, is "Uso ... desu ... kuchimane o shite iru dake desu" (first ellipsis Takaya's).
(1) comments
Among other things, Fruits Basket is a relentless catalogue of the ways parents can damage their children. From major characters like Kyo, Yuki and Akito, through secondary characters like Rin and Momiji, to minor characters like Machi, character after character suffers the scars of their parents' indifference or active dislike. But there's one shining counter-example: Tohru's mother Kyoko. Far from messing Tohru up, she made her into the good, loving person she is. In fact, Kyoko is a model parent. At least, she appears to be one during most of the series.
There's one discordant element from the start, though: Tohru's constant self-denigration. Even as she's unselfishly helping everyone, she feels guilty for not being unselfish enough. My favorite example is the time when, after visiting Rin (who doesn't even like her) in the hospital, she condemns herself for having forgotten for a moment about her goal of lifting the curse. If Kyoko was so wonderful, why was Tohru so bent on punishing herself?
The first hint that Kyoko was not as perfect as Tohru and Arisa's recollections made her out to be is Kyo's flashback of Kyoko completely freaking out when Tohru had gotten lost. But it's not until volume sixteen that we get a more complete picture of Kyoko and Tohru's relationship. In another flashback, Kyoko tells Kyo that after Tohru's father Katsuya had died, she (Kyoko) had been plunged into despair, and was on the verge of killing herself so that she could be with Katsuya again. At the last moment, she heard a kid yelling "Mom!" and was reminded of Tohru (then a very young child) and realized that she had been neglecting her. She rushed home, apologized in tears to Tohru and embraced her. After telling this to Kyo, Kyoko says: "Maybe the world doesn't need me. But there's still one person who's kind enough to need me. I only need that to live."
A heartwarming story with an affirmative moral, at least on the surface. But when you look more closely, there's a darker side. Whether she realizes it or not, Kyoko is in effect imposing upon Tohru the responsibility of keeping her alive, which is a terrible burden for a parent to place upon her young child.
Am I reading too much into this scene? Am I being overly cynical? I might have thought so if not for volume nineteen, where we see this dynamic from Tohru's side. At Kyoko's grave, Kyo meets Tohru's grandfather, who in the course of conversation asks him if he knows why Tohru speaks in such a polite manner. When Kyo says no, Tohru's grandfather tells him that she's imitating her father. At Katsuya's funeral, she heard some relatives saying that because she didn't look like Katsuya, she would be "no consolation" to Kyoko. When Kyoko fell into depression, Tohru asked her grandfather: "Daddy went somewhere far away, didn't he? Will Mommy go there too? Is Dad calling her? She's been sad for a long time. She won't talk to me. Is she sad because I don't look like Dad? What can I do to be like him? Will Mom get better if I'm just like him? Will she stay here?"** Since Kyoko's return, Tohru has been talking like her father.
Pondering this conversation, Kyo asks Tohru herself if her father looked like her. Nervously and with a forced smile, she tells him that they didn't look too much alike, but everybody said that they talked alike, even her mother. Then, in one of the most heartbreaking moments in a series full of heartbreaking moments, Tohru says "That's a lie.... I'm just mimicking the way he talked."*** She had been afraid that her father would take her mother away. and to try to hold on to her, she had imitated her father.
When I read this, everything about Tohru's character fell into place. Ever since her father died, she had been afraid that her mother would go away -- i.e., kill herself. And she had been continuously making an effort to keep her with her. She was always cheerful on the outside so that Kyoko would want to stay. She was unselfish to the point of abnegation because any demands of her own might drive Kyoko away. And she constantly felt guilty because the real Tohru wouldn't be able to keep Kyoko from going away, as she wasn't after Katsuya died. Even after Kyoko died (which she blamed herself for) the patterns of behavior she had learned continued. Without meaning to, Kyoko profoundly damaged her, even though she loved her.
Once I realized this, I saw some of the earlier scenes in a new light. For instance, it was now clear to me that for a schoolgirl to live alone in a tent when she has friends who would gladly put her up, so as not to bother them, isn't an endearing quirk but a sign of serious psychological problems (something I should have realized before).
Of course, Tohru is genuinely kind and good, and Kyoko is responsible for that too. Kyoko isn't a bad person, but in Fruits Basket even good people keep hurting each other without meaning to. Though Takaya gives her characters happy endings, her vision in Fruits Basket is hardly a cheerful one.
*This post may come off as a rebuttal to Kristin Bomba's contribution to the Manga Moveable Feast. I do have some disagreements with what Kistin writes about Tohru and Kyoko, but I've had these ideas for a long time, and I had decided to write them up for the MMF before I read Kristin's post.
**In the Tokyopop edition, there are quotation marks around each of these sentences, but not in the Japanese edition.
***I've used my own translation here. The Japanese, for those who want to check, is "Uso ... desu ... kuchimane o shite iru dake desu" (first ellipsis Takaya's).
Monday, July 25, 2011
MANGA CORNER: BILLY BAT VOL. 6
I recently bought a copy of Billy Bat vol. 6, which came out a few weeks ago, and I just finished reading it. The first three-quarters of this volume continue the story of the previous volume. We learn more about how Chuck Culkin replaced Kevin on "Billy Bat," and we see Chuck in the present as well. And we continue following Kevin and the man whose identity I'm withholding because it would be a huge spoiler. The last quarter of the book takes place in New York in 1963 and introduces a whole new batch of characters. When I first skimmed through this portion I saw a figure who looked like Bob Dylan and saw the katakana for "Bob Dylan," and I thought "Urasawa wouldn't ... would he?" As it turns out, he didn't: it's just a character who looks like Dylan and is a big Dylan fan. And he's not the main character of this section, anyway: his Japanese-American ex-girlfriend is. This volume doesn't reach the storytelling heights of some of the earlier volumes, and it dissipates some of the urgency I felt coming out of the last volume. But it's still a good volume, without the lenghty weak section that mars volume five.
The blurb on the obi (the paper band that wraps around the bottom half of the jacket) says "Mysteries will be made clear!!" But they aren't, for the most part. We do learn the motive behind the Shinoyama case, which played a prominent role in the first volume-and-a-half but has pretty much gone unmentioned since then. And the Bat reveals something of his true nature (if we can believe what he says, that is), but his words raise at least as many questions as they answer.
Though there are no shocks in this volume to compare to those delivered in vols. 2 and 4, it nevertheless changed my expectations for the series. At the end of the last volume, everything seemed to be building towards a decisive confrontation at a certain place and time, and sooner rather than later. But now my guess would be that we're in this for the long haul. If that confrontation takes place, it will probably be indecisive, like several such confrontations in Monster and 20th Century Boys. And the introduction of what looks to be a major new character, and a major new arc involving her, makes it unlikely that Urasawa will be wrapping this up very soon.
I'm getting a bit worried about the licensing prospects for Billy Bat in the U.S., though. Again, I have to be vague for fear of spoilers. But I can say that an American historical figure is depicted in a way that, while patently fictional, might still anger and even outrage some people, and Kodansha, Billy Bat's publisher, might possibly be worried about offending the U.S. market.
A note for those who have read, or are reading, this volume in Japanese. You may have come across the word "Angorumoa" and been baffled, as I was. Upon searching, I eventually discovered that it's not the Sgt. Frog or Transformers character: it's the Japanization of "Angolmois." (To avoid creating false expectations among those who recognize the word or have Googled it, I'll add that nothing in this volume takes place later than 1963. If this makes no sense to you, don't bother trying to figure it out; it's not that important.)
Billy Bat is 196 pages long, and sells for 600 yen. It's published by Kodansha in their "Morning" line, and its ISBN is 9784063870015.
(Reviews of the previous volumes are here, here, here and here.)
(2) comments
I recently bought a copy of Billy Bat vol. 6, which came out a few weeks ago, and I just finished reading it. The first three-quarters of this volume continue the story of the previous volume. We learn more about how Chuck Culkin replaced Kevin on "Billy Bat," and we see Chuck in the present as well. And we continue following Kevin and the man whose identity I'm withholding because it would be a huge spoiler. The last quarter of the book takes place in New York in 1963 and introduces a whole new batch of characters. When I first skimmed through this portion I saw a figure who looked like Bob Dylan and saw the katakana for "Bob Dylan," and I thought "Urasawa wouldn't ... would he?" As it turns out, he didn't: it's just a character who looks like Dylan and is a big Dylan fan. And he's not the main character of this section, anyway: his Japanese-American ex-girlfriend is. This volume doesn't reach the storytelling heights of some of the earlier volumes, and it dissipates some of the urgency I felt coming out of the last volume. But it's still a good volume, without the lenghty weak section that mars volume five.
The blurb on the obi (the paper band that wraps around the bottom half of the jacket) says "Mysteries will be made clear!!" But they aren't, for the most part. We do learn the motive behind the Shinoyama case, which played a prominent role in the first volume-and-a-half but has pretty much gone unmentioned since then. And the Bat reveals something of his true nature (if we can believe what he says, that is), but his words raise at least as many questions as they answer.
Though there are no shocks in this volume to compare to those delivered in vols. 2 and 4, it nevertheless changed my expectations for the series. At the end of the last volume, everything seemed to be building towards a decisive confrontation at a certain place and time, and sooner rather than later. But now my guess would be that we're in this for the long haul. If that confrontation takes place, it will probably be indecisive, like several such confrontations in Monster and 20th Century Boys. And the introduction of what looks to be a major new character, and a major new arc involving her, makes it unlikely that Urasawa will be wrapping this up very soon.
I'm getting a bit worried about the licensing prospects for Billy Bat in the U.S., though. Again, I have to be vague for fear of spoilers. But I can say that an American historical figure is depicted in a way that, while patently fictional, might still anger and even outrage some people, and Kodansha, Billy Bat's publisher, might possibly be worried about offending the U.S. market.
A note for those who have read, or are reading, this volume in Japanese. You may have come across the word "Angorumoa" and been baffled, as I was. Upon searching, I eventually discovered that it's not the Sgt. Frog or Transformers character: it's the Japanization of "Angolmois." (To avoid creating false expectations among those who recognize the word or have Googled it, I'll add that nothing in this volume takes place later than 1963. If this makes no sense to you, don't bother trying to figure it out; it's not that important.)
Billy Bat is 196 pages long, and sells for 600 yen. It's published by Kodansha in their "Morning" line, and its ISBN is 9784063870015.
(Reviews of the previous volumes are here, here, here and here.)
Thursday, July 21, 2011
ANIME CORNER: EVANGELION 2.22: YOU CAN (NOT) ADVANCE
Neon Genesis Evangelion, the groundbreaking and popular anime series, is currently being remade as a series of four theatrical films, collectively entitled Rebuild of Evangelion. I watched the first of these films, annoyingly titled Evangelion 1.11: You Are (Not) Alone, when the DVD came out, but don't remember much about it, other than that it deviated little from the plot of the original. And yesterday I watched the second installment, Evangelion 2.22: You Can (Not) Advance. I didn't have high expectations going in, but even so, I was disappointed.
Evangelion 2.22 feels like, more than anything, like one of the many ripoffs of the original Evangelion. The main characters have lost their specificity and become cliches: Shinji is now a typical tortured teen protagonist, Asuka is a typical tsundere character, and Rei is, well, a typical Rei Ayanami-type character. The other characters are barely developed at all (including the new pilot featured on the cover, who plays very little role in this installment). What made the original Evangelion so fascinating and infuriating was that it was in large part an expression of Hideaki Anno's tortured psyche. Evangelion 2.22 seems to have been made solely to make money
Evangelion 2.22 does deviate from the plot of the original Evangelion in important ways. For those who remember the original, this produces one genuinely shocking moment. But it's not worth watching the whole thing just for that moment.
If you do watch Evangelion 2.22, don't turn it off or skip to the preview when the credits start rolling. The filmmakers have placed after the credits, not the sort of extra you sometimes get as a reward for sitting through the credits, but a brief but crucial scene. And this scene comes before the chapter break separating the credits from the preview.
(0) comments
Neon Genesis Evangelion, the groundbreaking and popular anime series, is currently being remade as a series of four theatrical films, collectively entitled Rebuild of Evangelion. I watched the first of these films, annoyingly titled Evangelion 1.11: You Are (Not) Alone, when the DVD came out, but don't remember much about it, other than that it deviated little from the plot of the original. And yesterday I watched the second installment, Evangelion 2.22: You Can (Not) Advance. I didn't have high expectations going in, but even so, I was disappointed.
Evangelion 2.22 feels like, more than anything, like one of the many ripoffs of the original Evangelion. The main characters have lost their specificity and become cliches: Shinji is now a typical tortured teen protagonist, Asuka is a typical tsundere character, and Rei is, well, a typical Rei Ayanami-type character. The other characters are barely developed at all (including the new pilot featured on the cover, who plays very little role in this installment). What made the original Evangelion so fascinating and infuriating was that it was in large part an expression of Hideaki Anno's tortured psyche. Evangelion 2.22 seems to have been made solely to make money
Evangelion 2.22 does deviate from the plot of the original Evangelion in important ways. For those who remember the original, this produces one genuinely shocking moment. But it's not worth watching the whole thing just for that moment.
If you do watch Evangelion 2.22, don't turn it off or skip to the preview when the credits start rolling. The filmmakers have placed after the credits, not the sort of extra you sometimes get as a reward for sitting through the credits, but a brief but crucial scene. And this scene comes before the chapter break separating the credits from the preview.
