Friday, June 16, 2017

Digest: Eromanga-sensei, Gabriel Dropout, and Miss Kobayashi's Maid Dragon

Another three mini reviews packed in one post. I’m looking at these in ascending order of how much I liked them. (Spoiler alert: none of them blew my mind.)

Eromanga-Sensei

Like a weird confetti of tired tropes from comedy anime of the period 2006-2010, Eromanga-sensei exploded onto the scene and proceeded to divide everyone. Oreimo author Tsukasa Fushimi basically decided to redo that problematic series by focusing on a pair of characters who seem like they stepped out of one of the many inane anthology tales of sibling incest that populated the background of the later Oreimo novels.

Did that sound like the sort of snooty highbrow film critic who rages at The Avengers for being propaganda of a fascist patriarchy but praises Sucker Punch for its artistry beyond the purview of the plebeian? That’s how Eromanga-sensei makes me feel. I couldn’t even finish the second episode. I made it 15 minutes in, but really, it had lost me the second that girl started talking about how much she loves dicks. It’s not because she’s in middle school, though that’s bad enough, but because of how brazenly incompetent it was. Instead of the fun of an elaborate, bizarre setup like the Twister scene with Nadeko or the toothbrushing scene with Karen in Nisemonogatari, this girl just shows up on our hero’s doorstep and proclaims, apropos of nothing, that she loves dicks. Eromanga-sensei uses all the tropes I used to enjoy in Haganai, Bakemonogatari, Saekano, and Oreimo itself, but it uses them artlessly. It’s like someone wants a cake and you just throw eggs, milk, flour, butter, and sugar in their face.

The setup manages to be both pedestrian and too strange to produce any real emotional connection: Masamune Izumi is a teenage light novel author. His illustrator is a mysterious person known as Eromanga-sensei who turns out to be Sagiri, his cute loli sister who hasn’t come out of her room since their parents died a year ago. The whole situation reads like Tsukasa Fushimi asking for a do-over on Oreimo. This time, the siblings aren’t blood-related, so a full incest ending is permitted. Fushimi apparently didn’t realize that the incest parts of Oreimo were the worst parts; the best parts of Oreimo were the parts where Kyousuke and Kirino were establishing a relationship as siblings, as family, not when they were doing weird incest stuff that seemed to come out of nowhere.

The only reason I even turned on the second episode was that I felt like I owed it to Fushimi to give the show a chance to develop. Then Dick Girl started in and it lost me. I only kept going for another fifteen minutes because I felt I owed Fushimi the benefit of the doubt. Then I realized that I don’t owe Fushimi anything, not even the benefit of the doubt, not after what a colossal pile of crap the later parts of Oreimo were. I don’t know why Fushimi even bothered writing anything well in the first place if the end goal was always contrived sibling incest, but it seems clear watching Eromanga-sensei that Fushimi and I have entirely different ideas about what the problems with Oreimo were, and Fushimi’s true vision for the series is something I have no interest in watching.

Gabriel Dropout

Gabriel is an angel who was top of her class in angeling school. For some reason, all angels in her world have to go to Earth and attend human high school after they finish angeling school. Once Gabriel reaches Earth, she discovers online gaming and becomes a worthless loser who lives on a pile of garbage and only comes to school when her demon friend, Vigne, bugs her. Gabriel also attends school with Satania, a put-upon demon with delusions of evil grandeur, and Raphiel, an angel whose soft demeanor conceals a love of manipulation and cruelty.

Gabriel Dropout is basically a wacky comedy with a dash of cute girls doing cute things, similar to Anne Happy but with better writing. The concept is the usual out-there weird anime concept and there’s nothing particularly noteworthy about it, but the show pulls off some good jokes in its first few episodes. The idea that online games are such a noxious force that they can even corrupt someone as pure as Gabriel was is fun, and there are some good scenes with Satania, although nothing we haven’t seen before. I would’ve liked it if we’d kept exploring the first impression we get of Satania, as someone who wants to be evil because her culture tells her to, but just doesn’t have any head for it and can’t help being good. Instead she becomes a reasonably standard misfortunate oblivious hothead character who declares herself the main character’s rival.

My favorite scene so far was probably the extended coffee shop joke. I was starting to feel sorry for that poor coffee shop owner guy, and the finale of the joke employs Vigne perfectly.

Miss Kobayashi’s Maid Dragon

Of the three shows in this post, this was by far the best. Like Gabriel Dropout, it uses one of the usual out-there weird anime concepts. Kobayashi-san is a put-upon programmer (she writes Python) who lives alone. One night she drinks too much and meets a dragon, who moves in with her as a maid after she drunkenly tells it they can live together. The dragon, Tohru, is obsessively in love with Kobayashi and wants to be with her above all despite being an immortal being with earth-shattering magic. (Per usual in anime like this, she can use her magic to take on a human form, but she can’t get rid of her horns, giant tail, or freakish yellow eyes with red highlights and cat-like slit pupils.) Soon, a young child dragon, Kanna, has also moved in with Tohru and Kobayashi, and two of Tohru’s dragon friends, the dark bishounen Fafnir and the boob character Quetzalcoatl (yes, they made Quetzalcoatl female. Start your rants about the disrespect and cultural appropriation shown by diverging so sharply from the original Aztec mythology), known as Lucoa for short, have inserted themselves into Kobayashi’s everyday life.

The series hits most of the beats you’d expect. The side characters all have one joke that they repeat every time they appear. The later episodes start to drag a bit with the usual plots where everyone performs in a play / celebrates Christmas / plays dodgeball at the park / whatever while doing their one joke. But the earlier episodes, and even certain subplots of the later episodes, have surprisingly well executed slice of life stories about the main trio of Kobayashi, Tohru, and Kanna that let us get to know them as characters. Some stories are about pleasant everyday things, like when Kanna gets disappointed that Kobayashi can’t attend her sports day festival, causing Kobayashi to realize that Kanna sees her as a mother and work late hours so she can get a day off to come. Sometimes we get a taste of the culture gap between the magical dragon world and the human world. That culture gap is frequently played for comedy, but sometimes we also get a real, thoughtful moment from it, such as Tohru’s reflection on the difference between humans in her world, who hate and fear dragons (and are hated and feared in turn), and Kobayashi’s world, where humans have accepted her. Every time I started to think a clichéd dramatic scene was going on for too long, it stopped, showing an admirable control of tone and timing.

As we discover, Tohru is actually a villain, so most of the best jokes come from her quick resort to violence. She’s grave and vicious with her violence, rather than the gleeful careless destruction that’s common among harem anime characters. She fully understands the seriousness of the havoc she wants to wreak, which makes it even funnier when she plans to kill someone over a relatively minor matter.

On that note, I’ll end with this GIF:


Friday, June 9, 2017

An Alternate Interpretation of “Let It Go”

The song “Let It Go” from the Disney film Frozen has often been interpreted as a generic paean to banal ideas like “be yourself” and “let the real you shine through”, but it is entirely possible that, if one really examines the lyrics closely, it has a different and far more sinister interpretation. Consider that Queen Elsa, the character who chants these lyrics at our children, is both the absolute monarch of a small nation and inexplicably disgruntled, secretive, and able to wield superhuman powers, and we gain a picture of her as a radical leftist with an anti-democratic philosophy, an inherent hatred of free markets, and deep hostility towards men (as seen in her treatment of Prince Hans).

If we consider “Let It Go” with this interpretation of the character in mind, we see that the song actually represents the moment Elsa decides to reveal herself as a fascist, anti-corporate, anti-gun, man-hating dictator, ruling by the power of her magic and the fear and complicity of a people cowed by endless winter and barely able to feed themselves from the infertile, snow-covered land that Elsa has created. Let’s examine the song.

The snow glows white on the mountain tonight.
Not a footprint to be seen.
A kingdom of isolation, and it looks like I’m the queen

Elsa notes here that Arendelle has become diplomatically and culturally isolated since her father died, similar to authoritarian Communist dictatorships such as Cuba and North Korea, and that she is now the queen and unchallenged ruler of this “hermit kingdom” (except for the threat of Anna’s future suitor; Anna herself is pliant and easy to manipulate, but a suitor could pose a challenge to Elsa’s rule, which is why she rejected Prince Hans so stridently).

The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside
Couldn’t keep it in, heaven knows I tried

Elsa comments that she’s tried these past few years to uphold the values of her nation, in word if not in spirit, but she finally reached a point with her coronation where she realized that with her father dead, she could allow her own anti-democratic tendencies to come to the fore.

Don’t let them in, don’t let them see
Be the good girl you always have to be
Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know
Well, now they know

Elsa describes the mindset she took to hide her authoritarian persuasion and sexist tendencies: by refusing to “let them in” or “let them see” her true hatred for freedom and for men, and playing “the good girl” that she “always ha[d] to be”, a good girl who would never shut down commerce, tax the job creators, and throw out competent male advisors in favor of corrupt, incompetent ones who either happen to be female or are weak and yielding enough to act as rubber stamps for Elsa’s policies. She tried to conceal her true desires, and avoid feeling them or showing any sign of them, but her authoritarian leaning has become obvious, and “now they know”.

Let it go, let it go
Can’t hold it back anymore
Let it go, let go
Turn away and slam the door

Elsa has resolved to “let it go”. She uses this phrase with two different meanings in this passage. In the first, she follows with “Can’t hold me back anymore”, signifying that she is now going to let “it”, her militant left wing matriocratic ideology, loose upon the people she rules, grinding them down under her radical feminist bootheel. In the second, she follows with “Turn away and slam the door”, signifying that she is going to let Arendelle’s constitution, crafted by the Founding Fathers to uphold democracy, freedom, and property ownership, “go”, “turn away” from it, and “slam the door” on it.

I don’t care what they’re going to say
Let the storm rage on
The cold never bothered me anyway

Elsa knows her people will murmur with disquiet when she begins dismantling the protections of the Bill of Rights by taking away their guns, subjecting them to illegal searches and seizures, and curtailing their free speech. However, she will ensure they have no power to fight back by letting the storm rage on, destroying their property and the ability of the land to feed them. This won’t affect her because she will send jackbooted thugs to collect what little food the people do produce as taxes, so the cold will never bother her, anyway.

It’s funny how some distance
Makes everything seem small
And the fears that once controlled me
Can’t get to me at all

“Distance” is metaphorical; Elsa now considers herself a higher being, above all others, atop a pedestal from which she looks down at everything, which now seems small. The fears that once drove her to maintain democratic rule and a nodding relationship with the Constitution can’t get to her at all.

It’s time to see what I can do
To test the limits and break through
No right, no wrong, no rules for me
I’m free

Elsa now intends to start undermining the democracy that her family upheld for generations, and to see how much she can get away with. She’ll test the limits by first using pseudo-legal measures such as executive orders and shady backroom deals with private sector apostates and Big Charity to achieve her far left extremist agenda, but when those prove insufficient to continue her march towards militant lesbian autocracy, she’ll “break through” and use force and direct coercion to achieve her ends. Elsa believes she is beyond primitive notions of good and evil and can do whatever she wants because there is no right or wrong or any rules for her. In so declaring, she also implies her agenda to use her cult of personality to set herself up as a god, destroy all churches, make practicing the Christian religion illegal, and establish death camps for any Christian who refuses to give up their beliefs and set Elsa as a false idol in the place of the one true God and His only begotten son, our lord and savior Jesus Christ.

Let it go, let it go
I am one with the wind and sky
Let it go, let it go,
You’ll never see me cry
Here I stand and here I stay
Let the storm rage on

Elsa’s secret police will have eyes everywhere searching for dissenters. The secret police’s network of spies and informants will be so expansive that it will gift Elsa with near-omniscience, as if she were “one with the wind and sky”, and so able to be everywhere and see everything. This will ensure that you never see her cry, and also that she will continue standing and staying exactly where she is, because any action by her people which might cause her to cry or endanger her position will be swiftly rooted out and squashed due to the omniscience afforded her by her secret police and monitoring system.

My power flurries through the air into the ground
My soul is spiraling in frozen fractals all around
And one thought crystallizes like an icy blast
I’m never going back, the past is in the past

Elsa realizes that she has even more power than she thought now that her militant fascist attitude has combined with her ice powers. She has suddenly become aware that she has the power to execute a pogrom of white men among her advisors and bring in transgender Muslims to fill those positions and plan a genocide of white heterosexual men among the general population.

Let it go, let it go
And I’ll rise like the break of dawn
Let it go, let it go,
That perfect girl is gone
Here I stand in the light of day
Let the storm rage on
The cold never bothered me anyway

Elsa is going to rise like the break of dawn and stand in the light of day, having left the darkness, and lay her intentions bare, declaring her intention to repeal democracy, suppress dissent, and create a police state ruled by militant lesbian leftist kleptocrats, with herself as grand despot, ruling over Arendelle with a cult of personality based on her godhood. Revealing this to the outside world will cause a political storm as her own people and other countries oppose her, but she can weather this storm since “the cold never bothered me anyway”. This is an ironic metaphorical callback to her earlier literal statement about creating a storm to destroy her people’s ability to feed themselves or engage in any economic activity not sanctioned by her corrupt cabinet of anti-male anti-hetero transgender lesbian socialist Muslim suicide bombers.

Conclusion

Queen Elsa represents a threat to American democracy. She is determined to turn all of our daughters and as many of our sons as possible into man-hating transgender socialist Feminazis and to create a world in which it is illegal to own a gun or a business and heterosexual white men are interned in death camps where they are forced to either submit to gender reassignment surgery or die in the gas chamber while their wives have sex with blacks and Jews outside.

The only way to stop this travesty is to fight back against Queen Elsa and her servants, the Disney Corporation, by making our own children’s movies that teach real American values, such as gun ownership, the natural dominance of white alpha males over women and other pathetic men with small penises, beating up egghead dorks who are into science and have small penises, and a view of God as the ultimate alpha male with the largest penis of all. Only then will we be able to take our children, and our country, back from the socialist lesbian genocidal maniac with ice powers known as Queen Elsa.

Monday, May 29, 2017

How to Reinvigorate Cute Girls Doing Cute Things: Or, A Review of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic

The first time I ever knew there were adult male fans of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, I had wandered onto a classmate’s Facebook page and discovered that his feed (or whatever it’s called; I don’t Facebook) was full of My Little Pony porn. Our genius professor had decided Facebook was the perfect way to disseminate class announcements, and this classmate of mine had joined the class group from his personal account. The Pokemon avatar picture he was using caught my eye and induced me to click over to his personal page, where I discovered the existence of My Little Pony porn.

After getting over the initial shock, I read some articles about the so-called “bronies”, and it made sense to me. In fact, the bronies felt like kindred spirits. After all, I was the guy who giggled over the banal daily lives of high school girl bands and girls training to become gondoliers in 24th Century Martian Venice. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic was basically a cute girls doing cute things show, but with ponies instead of human girls. So I instantly sympathized with the guys who were into it, because I understood both what they were getting out of it and the shame and isolation they probably felt over the mockery that society would heap on them for liking it.

Now, several years later, I’ve cooled a bit on cute girls doing cute things. I thought maybe I was entirely over the genre, but that doesn’t seem to be true. After all, I checked out a few episodes of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, and after a false start when I enjoyed but wasn’t bowled over by the first few episodes, I’ve come to really appreciate the show. And yes, it is just a cute girls doing cute things show with ponies.

I still don’t get the porn, though. They’re ponies. It feels too much like being sexually attracted to Minnie Mouse.

The Boring Reviewing Part

Even though I’m about to heap a lot of compliments on My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, the show isn’t perfect. Sometimes the story payoffs or the jokes’ punchlines are way too obvious. Sometimes characters act out of character or forget they have certain abilities for the convenience of the plot. Some episodes are extremely light on story content and are basically extended musical numbers. Sometimes the denouement of an episode seems contrived or rushed, as if a few extra scenes were needed to develop the plot threads. (The worst offender on both of the last two counts is probably Magical Mystery Cure, the Season 3 finale, which brings about a vital change in the show within the confines of a rushed episode made up of a cursory setup followed by a pair of long musical numbers.)

I’m also not a big fan of Flash animation. The show does a decent job varying the shots from the typical sideview and establishing a realistic sense of a physical world, which is something Flash animation seems to have a lot of trouble with; most of them end up looking not like a three-dimensional world but like multiple two-dimensional planes superimposed on each other, like a pop-up book or a puppet show or the cutscenes from Disgaea. My Little Pony comes closest of the Flash shows I’ve seen to actually creating a world that feels like a 3D space. I sometimes wish the color palette were a bit more subtle, but that’s just the nature of the My Little Pony toys. It’s not all bad on the art side: the ponies’ expressive faces lead to great reaction shots, and physical artifacts like houses, trains, household objects, jewelry, and clothes are all uniquely designed and feel like an organic part of the world. But I prefer the more realistic and subtle style of anime or Renaissance-era Disney.

Still, it’s pretty amazing what’s been achieved. A show conceived purely as a giant toy commercial for little girls was so well written and designed that it managed to attract hordes of adult male fans (and probably no small number of adult female fans) who personally identify with the characters, and to not only sustain the quality but actually keep getting better across six seasons and 143 episodes so far. The more I read about Lauren Faust, the creative force behind the show’s conception and showrunner for Season 1, the more I respect her. She worked as a writer and director on The Powerpuff Girls, which would definitely go in my top ten of American animated television alongside Batman: The Animated Series, Gargoyles, and Freakazoid. She clearly identified the problems with children’s programming of her era, such as the vapid, stereotypical characters and overly simplistic stories, and created a fun, unique direction for Friendship is Magic that would let it sell toys while also telling genuine stories. She even fought back, with grace and dignity, against an elitist culture critic who was determined to make out Friendship is Magic as racist, homophobic, and “smart-shaming”. (It’s funny that that last accusation would be lobbed at My Little Pony, of all shows aimed at girls. I’ve seen a lot of these shows with my younger sister; it is the only one of them in which I’ve ever even seen any of the characters pick up a book and read it, and it is one of the few that portrays being bookish or nerdy in a modern way, as a positive trait that can lead you to great things and won’t preclude a healthy, balanced life, instead of lazily recycling old clichés like Spock-speak and big thick glasses.)

The strong plot and character writing is the chief reason for MLP’s success, but it stands out creatively in other ways too. Every few episodes there’s a musical sequence, and I give huge credit to the writers and composers for choosing to go with a classical style for the songs instead of trying to do something more modern-sounding. Other children’s shows that I’ve seen also feature music, but they always try to make it sound current, which often means it sounds dated just a few years after the show first aired. The music of My Little Pony is, in the main, strongly influenced by the Disney musicals, but it experiments with various genres—pop, country, a capella, European folk music—which gives it a timeless sound. It’s a big deal to me that, watching Season 1 seven years later, I’m not wincing at a bunch of music that sounded trendy in 2010 and now sounds like bad music from 2010.

The Fanboying

Whenever I watch a cute girls doing cute things show, the first thing I do, after I’ve watched enough to get to know and love the characters a little, is decide who’s my favorite. Like most fans of this sort of anime, I have a type. I like the weird ones, the earnest and serious ones, and the shy ones, more or less in that order. Extra points given for smartness or sarcasm. Execution matters; in a given show, the shy character might speak to me more than the weird character and end up my favorite. Bonus for combining: Azusa of K-On is sarcastic while also being earnest and serious; Kagami of Lucky Star is sarcastic while also being smart; and Alice of Aria is weird while also being sarcastic, plus she’s a little serious and earnest and sometimes a bit shy. Naturally, all three are my favorite character from their respective shows.

By great good fortune, My Little Pony has a weird character, a smart character who’s earnest and serious, and a shy character. I went for the shy for number one here: Fluttershy is my favorite. She’s adorable. The writers’ American cultural background also means that Fluttershy ends up in the same kind of predicaments that I did and sometimes still do as a shy person in America, so she’s easier to identify with than a lot of the shy characters in anime, who live in a land where shyness is regarded differently. It’s refreshing, too, because it’s been far too long since I saw an anime with a good shy character. They used to be a mainstay of 90’s and early 2000’s anime, but the type didn’t evolve and the only two characters that come to mind when I try to think of good shy characters from recent shows are K-On’s Mio Akiyama (my third favorite from that show, after Azusa and Mugi) and Shiori Shiomiya of The World Only God Knows. There’s a whole other essay on what makes a good shy character, but Fluttershy really hits the mark. She has a personality beyond just being shy (unlike, say, Naru Sekiya from Hanayamata); she has to deal with real, ridiculous situations that only seem to happen to shy people; and even though others, especially Rainbow Dash, get frustrated with how shy and timid she is and try to teach her to be more assertive, there are also plenty of episodes that focus on the positive side, the kind and gentle nature that her shyness is part and parcel of. Fluttershy is content with who she is, and there’s no arc in the show about her opening up or becoming someone different and supposedly “better”, unlike, say, the aforementioned Naru Sekiya. Sometimes she has to step outside her comfort zone and speak up, but this doesn’t mean she has to change herself. There’s also never any suggestion that only Fluttershy needs to do this; all of the main characters (known punningly as the Mane Six among fans) have to step outside their comfort zones and learn new things. In a world where every shy character is just a setup for an arc where they either become assertive and outgoing or lose their minds and start flipping out and killing people, I love the way the writers approach Fluttershy’s character.

I’d like to say that earnest, bookish Twilight Sparkle is my second favorite and spastic joking party planner Pinkie Pie is my third, but fashion designer Rarity is a confounding factor. In the earlier seasons I considered her my second favorite, followed by Twilight and Pinkie Pie. She makes me laugh. Her Transatlantic accent and accompanying swank slang always make me chuckle (in one episode she sorts good apples from bad apples and proclaims them “lovely” or “horrid”). Her terrible date with a rich guy she just met in the Gala episode towards the end of Season 1 evoked the perfect mix of laughter and pity. She’s the closest thing the show has to a sarcastic character. (Pinkie Pie’s sister Maud doesn’t count, though she definitely makes me laugh.) I also love how hardworking she is, always bent over a sewing machine making something for someone.

Pinkie Pie has become some sort of meme in certain circles due to her ability to occasionally break the fourth wall. There was even a video about a death battle between her and Deadpool. Of course, they didn’t fight, but instead became best friends, broke the fourth wall together, and celebrated Deadpool’s birthday. What made that video great was how true it kept to Pinkie Pie’s character: she’s wacky and crazy and can be annoying sometimes, but she cares a lot about others, always going out of her way to make friends and to try and make sure everyone has fun and feels included. She’s cartoonish and chaotic, but also compassionate, and even feels realistic and fleshed out as a character, gaining depth by sometimes struggling with the more straightlaced and haughty parts of society, or the more immature parts of her own personality. It takes a long time to get to this point, though. In the earlier seasons Pinkie seems to just flash in for a joke or a song, then flash out. She’s usually not even visible in serious scenes. It isn’t until later that she starts to feel like a three-dimensional character.

I personally identify with Twilight Sparkle probably even more than Fluttershy, at least in the early seasons. When the series starts she’s got her head so far into books that she barely acknowledges anyone. Across the events of the first episode, she learns to value her connections with friends and what she can learn from friendship, but she also stays smart, studious, book-loving, and a bit tightly wound. Even in Season 6, where the story has conspired to force her to lighten up a little, we don’t lose track of that basic part of her personality.

No matter how you slice it, Applejack and Rainbow Dash are at the bottom of my list. Not that I don’t like them; I just like them less than the others. Both get several great episodes where their characters get expanded beyond “pony who says ‘tarnation’” and “brash tomboy pony who loves speed”. I’d probably give Dash the slight edge over AJ because she was at the center of two of my favorite episodes in the series. The first is “Read It and Weep”, in which a hospitalized Rainbow Dash learns to enjoy reading and becomes a huge fangirl of the Daring Do books, which star an Indiana Jones-like female pegasus named Daring Do. I especially enjoyed a scene where Rainbow Dash says reading is for eggheads and all the other ponies, including the not at all bookish Applejack and Pinkie Pie, laugh and tell her that everyone enjoys reading. The second is “Stranger than Fan Fiction”, in which Rainbow Dash attends a Daring Do convention and meets a fanboy named Quibble Pants. They get along swimmingly at first, sharing their obsession for the character, but later start to argue since Quibble hates the later books and Rainbow likes them. (All the ponies in My Little Pony have an emblem on their flank called a cutie mark that signifies their special talent; Quibble’s is a speech balloon emoji, signifying that his special talent is complaining on the Internet. Even though Equestria doesn’t have Internet yet.) The episode packs in a ton of fun references to fandom and fan culture, my favorite being the creepy Daring Do body pillow cover that flashes by in a montage, without feeling either condescending or exploitative about it.

It’s kind of a toss-up between AJ and Dash, though. As good as several of her episodes were, Rainbow Dash has a self-absorbed, arrogant, and callous side to her that makes her harder to like than the others. Applejack is the opposite: she’s very likeable, but as far as I can remember she never starred in a good story. She’s extremely hardworking, competent, ethical, loves her family, is involved with her community, is grounded and knows who she is. That seems to have made it very hard to write stories for her, so most of the stories that center around Applejack involve her acting in some way that seems inconsistent with how she is in other episodes. (My least favorite example is “Applejack’s ‘Day’ Off” from Season 6; it had an obvious setup for a message about not working yourself to death, which is such a vital message in this day and age that I would’ve forgiven it for being the same message as Season 1’s “Applebuck Season”, but instead they went for a payoff that was strange and hard to swallow.) The best Applejack episodes are the ones where she goes up against Flim and Flam, a pair of carnival barker ponies who show up in town every so often with some sort of snake oil scheme. These are episodes that don’t usually involve her learning anything or growing as a person/pony; they’re tests of her existing character, not transformative. They also work because the somewhat bland Applejack has the flamboyant Flim and Flam to play off of.

The Quintessence of Cute Girls Doing Cute Things

If you don’t believe that My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is a cute girls doing cute things show, let’s strip away all the trappings, the art style, the voice actors, all of that, and just look at the premise. A cute girl, a powerful student of magic who loves reading and being organized, is sent by her magic teacher to live in a rustic town. She meets a girl who is shy and quiet and loves animals; an athletic tomboy; a wacky, crazy girl who lives in la-la land; a tough, straightforward farm girl; and a high-class girl who loves fashion and making dresses. The six of them soon become best friends and discover the power of friendship, after which they spend their days having tea parties and sleepovers at each other’s houses, organizing and attending festivals to celebrate various holidays, enjoying hobbies, and learning lessons about friendship.

That sounds like a cute girls doing cute things show to me.

Of course, they’re not at a school or in a goofing off club, but those are far from necessary elements. A raw, stripped down minimalism is an essential part of cute girls doing cute things, which imposes constraints that can make the genre hard to write well, but watching MLP: FiM, I’ve realized that the minimalism can also be liberating because it means there are fewer constraints than average on the world you can create or the kind of personalities and relationship dynamics you can explore. Earlier cute girls doing cute things, like Aria, Azumanaga Daioh, and Ichigo Marshmallow, felt more creative and open to possibility than the newer shows. Then K-On came along and solidified the “in a school in a goof-off club” paradigm, and constrained the genre in a way that eventually became stultifying. As Eren Jaeger would put it, the genre became like livestock in a pen, instead of being like starving wolves roaming in the forest looking for stuff to kill. (“Kill” is to be understood as a metaphor for “overwhelm with cute and gentle feelings”, and the starving wolves are really more like adorable bunnies. Or unicorns. Or pegasi. Or alicorns. Or earth ponies.)

I’ve touched on what makes a cute girls doing cute things show previously, but let’s codify it a bit. It turns out there are six elements which come together to make a harmonious expression of cute girls doing cute things. I like to call them the Elements of Harmony. All six are abstract qualities that can’t be boiled down into a formula, but have to come from a place of feeling on the creators’ parts.

A cute girls doing cute things show is fun and has a lot of laughter. The most successful ones all have a festive atmosphere, whether it’s celebrating the small treasures of daily life like Aria, highlighting the good times of youth like K-On, or showcasing the characters’ unique way of looking at the world like GA.

A cute girls doing cute things show is kind and gentle. The characters don’t have to be perfect, but they’re good at heart and soothing to be around. The world may have dangers, but the characters aren’t under constant threat and for the most part live quiet, happy lives. If the humor gets too cruel or the stories get too chaotic, the show slips into being a wacky comedy, which can be a fun genre but is definitely distinct from cute girls doing cute things. (For me, this was the main failing of Anne-Happy as cute girls doing cute things.)

A cute girls doing cute things show is honest. Most important is emotional honesty: we should always be able to relate to the joys and the travails of the cute girls on some level. A lot of anime that I’ve seen recently fail to connect with me because they lack emotional honesty. The characters’ emotions are illogical, strange, unrelatable, or just not there, either because of bad writing, because the situation creating the emotion is too rarefied, or because the writers are relying too much on clichés. (I just watched the first episode of Eromanga-sensei, the all new, no different series from Oreimo creator Tsukasa Fushimi, and really felt disconnected from the characters due to the bizarre, unrelatable situation and overreliance on clichés.) Honesty means that sad and unpleasant things are given their due as well. The senpais have to graduate; the best friends have to split up; the concert has to go badly sometimes. The characters can’t wave a magic wand and make it all go away, but they can face the situation with optimism and try to find the good in it in spite of their sadness. It’s also important that the show feels genuine; if there’s even a hint that the show was just a cynical money grab or that it was written by people who don’t respect the characters and the work, it will fall apart.

A cute girls doing cute things show is generous with showing us the characters and their lives. When I was first getting into anime, I always loved the slice of life portions of anime that were about something else. There was an episode of Dragon Ball Z, for example, where Goku gets a driver’s license. He doesn’t fight any planet-destroying monsters or anything, he just tries to pass a driving exam despite being a barbarian and outcast from society. I really enjoyed that episode. It was a fun break from bashing each others’ heads in and hair that got progressively bigger and blonder. There was also an episode of Evangelion where Shinji and Asuka have to sync up their movements to be able to fight off an Angel that can split itself into two. The episode has a couple of fight scenes and some loud comedy that hasn’t aged very well, but it also has a lot of quiet moments where we just learn things about the characters, and I loved that. Pretty much every show back then would have a couple of episodes like that, but because the main focus of the show was something else, the quieter character moments were doled out in miserly little dollops across multiple episodes of a long series, and I never got enough to feel satisfied. That’s why Tenchi Muyo was such a happy discovery; whatever other weird stuff was going on, most episodes managed to include at least a couple moments like this for at least one character. Cute girls doing cute things is extremely generous with these moments. They’re not a brief diversion from hunting youkai or engaging in high-stakes mahjong battles; they are the show, and anything else is the brief diversion.

A cute girls doing cute things show is loyal to its cute girls. As we learn about the girls and see them in new situations, we need to be surprised and delighted by what we learn, but surprise should never come at the expense of delight. We should be delighted because what we learned is surprising but also not unexpected based on what we know so far about the character. A cute girls doing cute things show can have character arcs where the girls grow and change as they story goes on, but these arcs should never involve betraying a character’s essential nature. A character should not change into an entirely different person.

Finally, a cute girls doing cute things show needs magic. When the ingredients are all just right, they combine into an alchemical reaction that creates a particular dynamic that makes the show magical.

The Lessons We Can Learn From the Ponies

So, going back to My Little Pony, what exactly about it feels so fresh and interesting? It’s a bit hard to pin down, and partially I have to fall back on vague arguments about approaching the genre with fresh eyes. My Little Pony is an American production whose creators had most likely never heard of K-On or any other cute girls doing cute things. (Though some of the in-jokes in later seasons suggest that someone on the staff was an anime fan.) Their aim in creating the series was just to sell toys. It could only have turned out so well because of the creative integrity of Faust and her team; most shows created to sell toys, and this includes anime, are soulless. But a creator with talent and integrity can make something worthwhile from even an unpromising start, and that seems to be what happened with MLP. Since it’s a convergent evolution of cute girls doing cute things, it retains enough familiar elements to be recognizable, but does enough things different to feel fresh.

The most important part of cute girls doing cute things is the characters—the cute girls—whose virtues were enumerated above, but my current best answer for why the show feels so reinvigorating is the second most important part, the setting. My Little Pony takes place in a fantasy world of ponies, unicorns, dragons, and other magical creatures. The main characters live in a rural village called Ponyville (yes, all the placenames are horse puns), but we also see big cities, enchanted castles, frontier towns, and a city in the clouds where pegasi live. The world isn’t as artistically striking or detailed as the Neo-Venezia of Aria, but it has the same kind of feeling, a mixture of fantastical strangeness and homey nostalgia that comes from the blend of familiar and unfamiliar elements.

The world of Equestria gives the MLP writers a freedom that isn’t to be found in a school in a goofing off club. The main characters are all of indeterminate age, still young enough to be learning but old enough to be independent and supporting themselves. Most episodes are slice of life and focus on one character or a pairing of characters interacting, learning a lesson, and having fun, like most cute girls doing cute things shows. Some episodes combine slice of life with fun worldbuilding that fleshes out Equestria and the pony society, the same way Aria would slip in episodes like the visit to Al’s underground gravity control center or Akatsuki’s floating island so we could learn more about how Aqua works. Season openers and closers are usually bigger stories with full struggles against villains. We haven’t seen anything like this in cute girls doing cute things that I can think of, but harem shows like Tenchi Muyo and early Negima use a similar structure. Three of the villains so far have reformed and become interesting characters in their own rights, again like Tenchi Muyo and Negima have done. Thanks to the setting, the Mane Six can have the special abilities they need to fight these villains while allowing those abilities to be a natural part of their world. They aren’t special abilities in this world, they’re just facts of their biology. Rainbow Dash’s speed is just her world’s form of training to become an elite athlete, and Twilight’s magic is just her world’s form of studying to become a scholar, and both have developed these abilities as part of their careers. This is hard to make natural in a more realistic setting; most anime try to justify the existence of powers with some sort of threat that necessitates them. Probably the closest any anime I’ve seen has come to pulling off this sort of mundane magic as an organic part of the world is Someday’s Dreamers, with Kiki’s Delivery Service a close runner-up. I give Someday’s Dreamers the edge because it had actually worked out how magic had changed society, whereas in Kiki’s the wider world is still pretty much oblivious to magic. Flying Witch also had a good go at it, with similar results to Kiki’s; it struggles early on to keep reminding us that Makoto is a witch, but in the later episodes starts to capitalize more effectively on it.

The freedom to do these stories helps keep the series from feeling stale or stuck in a rut, unlike some shows I could name that had to cram in two visits to the exact same beach house. The Mane Six’s independence, the fact that they’re leading their own lives somewhat freely instead of being constrained to a school or a training program, also helps open up the story possibilities. Rainbow Dash can run off and join the Wonderbolts for a few episodes, while Rarity opens a boutique in the city and Pinkie Pie clones herself in a magical lake, because they’re all autonomous quasi-adults in a magical fantasy world instead of human teenagers in the real world who have to be doing things that human teenagers do in the real world.

My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic has achieved something that feels like a combination of mainstream cute girls doing cute things with the potential for worldbuilding and story variety that we get from a fantasy slice of life story like a Haibane Renmei or a Flying Witch, to the great benefit of both genres. I’d love to see some great fantasy cute girls doing cute things anime along the same lines, perhaps something like Komorebi no Kuni but with the deeper writing of MLP. But even more than that, I’d love for the people making these anime to learn to take more risks, try new things, expand the genre, instead of immediately locking themselves in a school in a goofing off club without taking the time to explore the options. I don’t believe we’ve seen everything this genre can give us yet.

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

Why it's so Hard to Deconstruct Cute Girls Doing Cute Things

A while ago I read a forum post wherein someone was trying to propose a deconstruction, in the vein of Madoka or Evangelion, of the cute girls doing cute things subgenre of iyashikei. This deconstruction would feature a fat girl, an ugly girl, a pregnant girl, and a druggie girl going through a high school life together to show us all what it’s “really like” when you get together a group of four “real” high school girls and show their daily lives.

However, that doesn’t viscerally strike me as a deconstruction in the same way that Eva or Madoka do, for a couple of reasons. Everyone being impossibly adorable isn’t an exclusive trope of cute girls doing cute things. Everyone in all anime is impossibly adorable. If an anime character is ugly, it’s usually because of artistic incompetence, not because the character is actually supposed to be ugly; they were probably supposed to be impossibly adorable and the artist just couldn’t execute. There are some exceptions, but not many, especially if you only consider female characters. And yeah, people in real life do have problems, but lots of people in real life are happy and content, and their problems are of the same “Oh no I flunked my test”, “No I don’t want to leave my friends after I graduate!” variety that we see in cute girls doing cute things. It’s definitely not inevitable that a group of high school friends will include a pregnant girl and a druggie just because pregnant girls and druggies exist.

More recently, people have been calling School Live a deconstruction of cute girls doing cute things. If you haven’t seen it, I’m going to spoil the ever-loving crap out of it, so stop reading immediately. School Live starts off following a peppy high school girl and her three friends, leading us to believe it’s a show about cute girls in a “Mess around and have fun on the school dime” club as we see in several bona fide cute girls doing cute things shows, such as Yuru Yuri. At the end of the first episode, it’s revealed that our heroine is in a state of denial about the zombie apocalypse going on outside, which has forced the four girls to barricade themselves inside the school for defense. She’s imagining that everything is still normal because her mind can’t accept the carnage that’s really going on. I’ve never watched past Episode 2, but the rest of the show seems to show the girls surviving, gathering food and water, and fighting zombies.

School Live is also not a deconstruction of cute girls doing cute things. It doesn’t comment on the conventions of the genre; it just uses them to set up one kind of story, then pull the rug out from under you and give you a different kind of story. And zombie stories are even more unrealistic than cute girls doing cute things; grisly is not the same as realistic. School Live is like a catchy pop tune with lyrics that are really creepy when you actually listen to them. Or maybe it’s more like a heavy metal song with lyrics that, when you actually read them in the liner notes (because come on, who can understand the lyrics to heavy metal?), turn out to be about ponies and butterflies and rainbows down by the bay where the watermelons grow. Either way, it’s not a deconstruction of cute girls doing cute things; it’s a zombie story that came up with an interesting fake-out for the first episode.

Since it seems like an interesting exercise, I’ll try my hand at deconstructing cute girls doing cute things too. Just based on the term “cute girls doing cute things”, there are three obvious ways to approach this: cute girls doing ugly things, ugly girls doing cute things, or ugly girls doing ugly things.

The forum post that set off this exercise is kind of a mixture: the way it was written seemed to assume that the pregnant girl and the druggie girl would be cute, but one’s out getting pregnant and one’s doing drugs, which are ugly things to be doing (one for a teenage girl in high school, the other for most people in general). The fat girl and the ugly girl were presumably meant to be ugly girls (one explicitly so, the other by implication due to societal beauty standards). Unfortunately, this means that both cute girls doing ugly things and ugly girls doing cute things are out, for the same reasons as before. Cute girls doing ugly things isn’t a deconstruction because the fact that cute girls can do ugly things doesn’t at all invalidate that they can also do cute things. Higurashi no Naku Koro ni is basically cute girls doing ugly things (going insane and chopping each other apart with big knives is pretty ugly), and though that might subvert audience expectations, it doesn’t deconstruct a genre. Higurashi does a similar thing to School Live, and isn’t a deconstruction for the same reasons.

There’s also a lesser form of cute girls doing ugly things where the story goes out of its way to highlight that the girls have periods, use tampons, get sweaty, fart, belch, and pick their noses. Oshiete! Galko-chan does this, for example. Some people might consider this sort of a deconstruction of cute girls doing cute things, but I don’t. Just because we never see Mio Akiyama belch loudly and complain about her period doesn’t mean that she doesn’t belch or have periods. J.K. Rowling never wrote a scene where Harry Potter sits down to take a dump, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t, and we can’t deconstruct Harry Potter just by writing a similar story where the wizards spend a strange amount of time sitting on the pot.

Ugly girls doing cute things comes closer to the mark–after all, who says ugly girls can’t do cute things? But this isn’t a specific deconstruction of cute girls doing cute things. If you believe the media, ugly girls don’t exist at all. Every girl and woman everywhere doing everything is beautiful, at least if you believe anime and Hollywood. Also, ugliness is too subjective. What’s ugly in one country is beautiful in another. Sometimes within the same city, or the same neighborhood, or the same family, you can find people who differ radically on what they consider ugly. Some people are even so open-minded, such good people, that they only consider others ugly based on personality. By that definition, ugly girls doing cute things are beautiful, because they’re innocent and kind people.

Plus, moe fans are freaks, so no matter what you do to make the girls ugly, some guy is going to get moe from it. You may think that an anime girl that has a lazy eye and a mole with a hair growing out of it is hideous, but some guy out there just found his waifu.

Since ugly girls doing ugly things is just ugly girls doing cute things combined with cute girls doing ugly things, that’s out too; just combine my argument for why cute girls doing ugly things isn’t a deconstruction with my argument for why ugly girls doing cute things isn’t a deconstruction and you have my argument why ugly girls doing ugly things isn’t a deconstruction.

So much for the obvious path. What else can we try?

Everything we’ve tried so far has been big and dramatic; cute girls getting pregnant, or being on drugs, or getting eaten by zombies, or chopping each other up. What if we tried something more subtle? What if we followed a group of cute girls doing cute things in spite of a world that wants to stop them?

I’m picturing a story that follows a group of upper middle-class high school girls living in a society that’s stable, but oppressive. Something like modern day Saudi Arabia, maybe: people generally have food and clothing and enough to eat, but they’re hemmed in by society in subtle, but unsettling, ways. Maybe one girl has the usual same-sex crush on one of her friends, but in one scene, her mother sits her down and explains to her how their religion forbids same-sex love and she could be in big trouble if she’s too expressive of her love in public. Maybe the girls plan a trip to the beach, but they have to wear full-body swimsuits and stare with envy (or sour grapes) at the tourist women in bikinis. Perhaps the girls want to go to a festival, but it’s a men-only event, so they obediently stay home and do laundry. Instead of wondering about college and future careers, they wonder about children and future husbands of arranged marriages.

The girls we follow aren’t social crusaders struggling against the status quo, or activists railing at the injustice; they’re just girls, privileged in some ways, living in a society that tightly circumscribes their freedom. They might whinge a little, like children told to go to bed when the movie’s over, but they wouldn’t fight too hard. They’d never be caught reading revolutionary literature; their dissatisfaction would come through hints and the occasional innocent daydream, and be filled in and amplified by the audience. This could instill, in place of the relaxing feeling of a regular cute girls doing cute things series, a persistent low-level unease, like the tension at the beginning of a horror movie but sustained and renewed at intervals throughout the entire series. The show could end with all the girls being married off by their families to older men, who we’d perhaps start to meet in later episodes in lieu of the usual stories about college exams. The graduating girls would settle down to lives as housekeepers and babymakers, and the younger girls would go back for one more year of education, knowing that the same awaited them.

This definitely feels the closest to a real deconstruction of the genre. Instead of outright substituting the grotesque, the horrifying, the contemptible, or the tragic for the usual relaxing and sweet, it gives you the surface ingredients of cute girls doing cute things–namely, a group of cute girls doing cute things–but then adds little twists that make it impossible to enjoy the stories the same way you’d enjoy a regular cute girls doing cute things show. Another interesting feature: it highlights the strange backdoor quasi feminism of cute girls doing cute things. That’s a topic I’ve been wrestling with for a while, and I’ll probably come back to it in another essay.

However, the backdoor quasi feminism is also why I can’t call this concept an unambiguously successful deconstruction of cute girls doing cute things. It’s very culturally relative. For most Americans, it would probably create the unease it’s intended to, but someone from rural Pakistan or Eritrea might not see the slightest thing wrong with it. They might even find it uneasy because the girls are too free. And in Japan, the home of cute girls doing cute things? It’s hard to say. Compare that to Madoka or Evangelion: neither of those are only a deconstruction in the right cultural frame of reference. It’s a higher level version of the argument I made against “ugly” girls: depending on where you’re sitting, that girl isn’t ugly.


So far I’ve utterly failed to deconstruct cute girls doing cute things.

As I was playing out this exercise, it occurred to me that it was so hard to deconstruct cute girls doing cute things because the genre is already sort of a deconstruction. No, it’s not dark or gritty like Madoka or Evangelion. It doesn’t deal with serious issues that are usually glossed over by other similar anime. But the word “deconstruction” doesn’t actually require any of that. To deconstruct is to start from the artificial conventions of some genre of fiction and show how they would play out in the real world.

Focusing on a group of high school friends is an old anime trope. At least, it’s old as anime go; anime is a young medium, and young media tend to ignore their history. But the convention of a group of high school friends who go through something extraordinary goes back at least to the mid 90’s. In most anime, the group of friends is special in some way: they’re chosen to receive superpowers and protect the world from extra-dimensional creatures that feed on human suffering; or they’re secretly all alien princesses; or they have dramatic, convoluted love polygons; or at the very least they’re really into mahjong. But in real life, if you found a group of four or five high school friends in a first-world country like Japan, chances are they’d be none of those things. They’d be ordinary teenagers who study, hang out, eat snacks, watch TV, laugh at each others’ dumb jokes. Maybe they’d have a band, but they’d play to the school festival crowd, not to a sold out stadium. Maybe some would be foreign exchange students, but from England, not from the planet Deviluke. Maybe they’d be into mahjong, but none of them would be horrifying demons of mahjong who were locked in a back house for ten years to contain the terrifying power of their mahjong.

A group of high school students being extraordinary in some unrealistic way–that sounds a lot like the artificial convention of a genre. And how would following a group of high school students probably play out in real life? Well, they’d sit around talking and eating snacks, go out for fast food, go shopping, go to the beach, laugh at silly in-jokes, and maybe spend time doing a shared hobby. Eventually they’d graduate high school and go to college. They’d think about careers and their futures, wonder if they’d stay friends after they’re not together every day, and leave behind their kouhai. Just like cute girls doing cute things.

The people trying to deconstruct cute girls doing cute things have it all backwards. If something is made of Legos, you can take it apart and get a bunch of Lego bricks, but you can’t take apart the individual bricks. So it is with cute girls doing cute things: it can’t be deconstructed because it already is.

Sunday, April 9, 2017

Escapism and Narrative Complexity: Being the First in An Attempt to Defend Serious Analysis of Popular Works

Recently, while spelunking down some time-wasting cavern of Internet articles, I stumbled across a 2014 article on Slate called “Against YA” by Ruth Graham, a “regular Slate contributor” who lives in New Hampshire. (This is on the article, set aside in a little box along with her photograph. I’m not really sure why. If all my blogs included a little box that said I live in California, it would make sense, because then you’d know you could just dismiss all my weird views as more California crazy-talk. But all “lives in New Hampshire” says to me is “gets way more visits from Presidential primary candidates than I do”.)

Graham argues against the now-trendy idea that it’s okay for adults to read and love young adult novels. “Adults should feel embarrassed about reading literature written for children,” Graham writes. She goes out of her way to mention that it’s fine for teenagers to read these books, but she finds it shameful for adults to be turning to them instead of to something more painfully literary. I can’t really name names; Graham doesn’t, and I don’t keep up with contemporary literary fiction at all, which probably tells you something about where I fall in this argument, alongside the fact that I write a blog devoted to exegeses of superhero films and perversely sexual animated shows from Japan. There are three subtleties to the previous sentence to keep in mind as signposts marking out the fuzzy boundaries of my feelings on this issue. The first: contemporary literary fiction. The second: exegeses. The third: modern mythological masterpieces and artistic works offering insight into the culture of today’s third-largest economic power. Okay, that’s not what I said, but it highlights what a flip-flopper I am on this issue.

After setting out the problem, Graham spends the first part of her argument talking about how she didn’t cry at The Fault in Our Stars, and even found herself groaning a few times at its sappy dialogue and characters, because she’s an adult. But visceral reactions like that are a matter of taste, and arguing over taste is entirely unproductive, especially when you’re arguing with unsophisticated readers who might not be able to articulate why they like something, but will feel attacked on a personal level if you insult it like this. (Guess how I know this. Yup, there are lots of unsophisticated “readers” in the world of sexually perverse animated shows from Japan.) The more interesting part comes later, when she starts building a logical case for the shame adults should feel reading YA novels, saying that “the enjoyment of reading [YA] has to do with escapism, instant gratification, and nostalgia” and that “the emotional and moral ambiguity of adult fiction—of the real world—is nowhere in evidence in YA fiction”. YA fiction is oversimplified, Graham argues. It presents an unreal picture of the world that adults should know to reject as too easy, too childish. Instead they’re embracing the books that present this simplistic worldview, and, Graham fears, ignoring stories where they could find “satisfaction of a more intricate kind in stories that confound and discomfit, and in reading about people with whom they can’t empathize at all.”

The pseudo-literate keyboard poundings which follow are not exactly a rebuttal to Graham, because I don’t entirely disagree with Graham. But I do think her argument takes a lot of fundamental assumptions on faith, and said following pseudo-literate keyboard poundings are my attempt to lay out these fundamental assumptions and explain whether I find them to hold or not, with reasons.

Every text is good, every text is great...

There is no such thing as a text you should feel ashamed of reading.

I have a philosophy. Like all great philosophies, I invented it to justify some decision I’d already made based on gut feeling. I’ve enjoyed fantasy, superheroes, Star Wars, Star Trek, James Bond, Lord of the Rings, and anime since I was young. When I became old enough to grow out of them, I did what lots of people my age did, and chose not to. To justify my decision not to grow out of these things, I adopted the philosophy that every text is good, every text is great, and if a text is wasted, Dr. Johnson gets quite irate. All texts are equal. All texts are worthy of literary analysis. We can learn something from every text. If you find a text that you can’t learn anything from, either you haven’t adopted the right perspective, you aren’t looking hard enough, or you’re letting your feelings cloud your analysis. (I’m using “text” here in the literary criticism sense. A “text” might be something other than words printed on a page. It might be a song, a film, a comic book, a cave painting, a magazine advertisement, a perversely sexual animated show from Japan. In literary criticism, “text” basically means “object of analysis”.)

Sometimes, to learn something from a text, you have to look behind the text. Sometimes you have to look multiple levels behind the text. Star Wars doesn’t teach us much at a textual level, nor does looking behind the text to its author, George Lucas. But if you look multiple levels behind the text to the way it connects to people on an emotional level, and even further behind it to what Star Wars and its popularity say about American culture and society in 1977, you can indeed learn something from it. Luke Skywalker’s plot arc, for instance, is the most American thing ever, even though it takes place a long time ago in a galaxy far far away: a young man who grows up on a farm in the middle of nowhere leaves to fight an evil empire, gains power and privilege due to his special talents, and eventually attains moral superiority over his foes, which allows him to militarily overcome them despite their overwhelming power. What’s more American than that? All it needs is some apple pie and a white picket fence. Star Wars is a real hard-case, too. It’s unusual in its determination to make sure you can’t learn anything from it.

This philosophy isn’t original to me. It’s in line with schools of critical thought made up by real literary critics who know things about literature and weren’t just trying to make themselves feel better about being man-children who won’t grow up and start praising Manchester by the Sea. In modern universities, you’ll find people who make serious study of comic books and science fiction, and probably also YA novels. I’ve read a Master’s thesis on the depiction of evil in the works of Stephen King. I’m sure someone out there has written a dissertation on The Fault in Our Stars, despite the fact that it made Ruth Graham say “Oh brother”. Should these people feel ashamed of themselves? Maybe they should. Personally, I think they should, but not because of comic books or The Fault in Our Stars. They should feel ashamed of themselves because they get paid by a university to sit around and read books and make up elaborate theories about them, instead of doing something useful for society, like prospecting for oil, or selling credit default swaps, or coding up cat picture blogs and fake news delivery systems in an open plan office while guzzling free soda. Seriously, guys, get a real job! (Unless you’re willing to hire me to read books and make up elaborate theories about them with you. Then you guys are great, I love you, you’re the salt of the earth, real paragons of society.)

Because every text, in theory, can teach us something, there’s no reason we should feel ashamed for choosing to learn from one text over another. Labels like “YA” and “literary fiction” are for marketing. They don’t tell us much about what we can learn from a text; they’re designed to tell people whether they’re likely to enjoy this book if they buy it. People also read for aesthetic pleasure, of course, but which texts give you aesthetic pleasure is a matter of taste. There’s nothing stopping us telling someone that their taste is wrong, but it won’t sit right with me to do it unless we’ve got a better reason than “Because it’s not my taste”, which is where arguments of taste usually end up. Later on, I want to try to develop an argument why certain tastes are wrong, but we’ll table that for now and talk about a caveat of another sort to my philosophy.

...But some texts are more equal than others...

So if every text is good, every text is great, then all texts are equal, right? That means it doesn’t matter what we consume. All texts are equal, so all of them are equally good.

That’s what I used to think. But it’s not exactly true. All texts are worthy of study, but some are more worthy than others. Some will reward your close study more than others. The best texts, the worthiest of analysis, are multi-layered. They have a surface story which can be enjoyed as pure entertainment, but a closer look will reveal an interesting substructure of ideas, symbols, influences, and commentary. It doesn’t matter what genre, audience, or time period you look at: some texts have more to teach us than others. This is presumably what separates Ruth Graham’s “very literary novel Submergence”, or the other “adult” writers she mentions such as John Updike, Alice Munro, Charles Dickens, and Edith Wharton, from writers like Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum, James Patterson, Dean Koontz, and Danielle Steel, who specialize in airport bookstore potboilers. This latter group of writers writes for adults just as much as Alice Munro and John Updike do, but their books tend to be pure escapism, meant to occupy an adult’s mind while sitting on a plane or on a beach or by a poolside. As such, the stories, characters, and language are straightforward and not particularly multi-layered.

Even among anime, there are some that reward close scrutiny more than others. Shows like Dragon Ball and Yu Yu Hakusho are fun, but there’s nothing below the surface. The characters even tell us their motivations in long monologues during the middle of a fight, just in case we were thinking of trying to figure something out for ourselves. You can try to analyze them, but they’re hard-cases like Star Wars: they bring out all the subtext and parade it in the open, so there’s nothing left to discover. One Piece is similar, but even it plays with its genre in some interesting ways that give it a little more to explore. Card Captor Sakura is a fun series with likable characters, but Madoka rewards close scrutiny more richly. It plays with and subverts its genre just like Card Captor Sakura does, but directly and indirectly touches on bigger, more fascinating ideas, while also having an exciting surface story to enjoy. And I hope I don’t need to explain how Evangelion yields a tenfold return on whatever energy you invest into trying to understand it, only payable after ten viewings. If you’re not seeing it, check out the three-part tear I went on about Eva back in 2012, which was honestly pretty superficial for an analysis of Eva; I wrote it when I was just starting to figure this stuff out, and nowadays it reads like Baby’s First Literary Analysis. (I’ve moved up to I’m a Big Kid Now Literary Analysis by Fisher-Price.) I even got a pretty good harangue out of Ore Imo, which illustrates both sides of my point: Ore Imo was obviously a richer ground for analysis than a lot of other anime I’ve seen, but there’s nothing about it that suggests it would be, so I never would have realized this if not for the principle that every text is good, every text is great.

...And there’s more at stake here than pleasure

If this were all just a matter of taste, if it were all just about what gives people aesthetic pleasure, then I would join the YA fans of the world in dismissing Graham as a stodgy old geezer bent on imposing her ideas of quality on others in a desperate bid to stay relevant. The thought had crossed my mind anyway, as you can probably tell by how easily I came up with the specific obloquy. But she does have a point.

Every text is equal, but some are more equal than others. Some are more complex, more subtle, constructed with more care, woven through with more sophisticated ideas, more provocative commentary, better at putting readers into an unfamiliar place, letting them walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. When I was a kid, the buzzword was that books can use your imagination to take you to faraway places and times, to show you incredible new things, let you have amazing new experiences. It’s true, they can, but they don’t all do it equally well.

Travel is supposed to broaden your horizons, but imagine you go to France, stay at a hotel where everyone speaks English, look at the Eiffel Tower, eat at McDonald’s, and then go back to the hotel in the evening to watch Duck Dynasty. You’re not broadening your horizons. You’re doing the same shit you always do, but in another country. It’s the same with texts. If you always read the same kind of shallow texts, whether those are YA novels or potboilers about spies or perverted Japanese cartoons about cute girls (urgh, that one hit close to home), you’re not letting your imagination transport you to a faraway place or experiencing incredible new things. You’re doing the same shit you always do, but in a different text.

Is that wrong? I wouldn’t go that far. You’re not a bad person for always sticking with the same kind of shallow texts, and always reaping the same kind of shallow harvest. But you’re not the best person you could be. You’re selling yourself short by not trying to grapple with more complex narratives. We all understand the world through narratives. It’s how we reduce the vastness of nine billion people, of a world of 197 million square miles, an observable universe with two trillion galaxies, deserts, mountains, wolves, snow, blue whales, streptococcus, Liberian child soldiers, quasars, plankton, thermal vents, string theory, into something small and personal enough that we can think about it, analyze it, have an opinion on it. The death of one is a tragedy; the death of one million is a statistic. Not because people are all unfeeling monsters, but because our minds lack a way of understanding a narrative on that scale. If someone tells me that one million people were slaughtered in a brutal pogrom, I can’t compass the scale of that destruction, and it ultimately means little to me. But tell me a story about a family who hid in a neighbor’s basement for six weeks, until they were finally dragged out, and the mother cut down in front of her husband and young son, and the horror of that pogrom becomes something I can understand and feel. The narrative gives an emotional context to the mass tragedy. It’s the reason stories like Anne Frank or the work of Elie Wiesel or Art Spiegelman’s Maus are so popular: they build personal narratives of the Holocaust that we can all feel and empathize with. A dry recitation of number of deaths at prison camps has no emotional truth without a narrative, whether it’s one told by those who were there or one we bystanders create out of our imaginations.

For your consideration, here’s another philosophy of mine: I believe that there is an objective reality, but no human is capable of perceiving it. Things happen in this world, independently of whether we know about them. If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, it does still make a sound. But as soon as we perceive this objective reality, before it even enters our conscious thoughts, our minds start adding things, embellishing it, filtering it through our own biases. It starts without us even realizing it, and we can’t stop it. Even data, like measurements of radio waves emanating from a distant galaxy, start to take on meaning as soon as we perceive them. Are they coming from a new kind of neutron star or an extraterrestrial intelligence trying to reach out? Which one you leap to depends on how you see the world.

As soon as we perceive objective reality, we start to weave a narrative around it, so we can make sense of it the only way we know how. The more sophisticated we are at understanding narratives, the more sophisticated we are at making them. People who can only understand simple narratives in simple terms will weave simple narratives in simple terms around complex realities. Politicians and ideologues take advantage of this. They reduce difficult, multifaceted issues to the narrative complexity of a GI Joe cartoon: Cobra bad, GI Joe good, go Joe! Many religious leaders take advantage of this. Thousands of years of debate on what certain passages of the Bible mean, complex moral issues, subtleties of theology, all get boiled down to the level of a children’s picture book.

Experience grappling with a complex narrative helps weave a narrative sophisticated enough to encompass the realities we experience, but it also helps us know when to reject someone else’s narrative as too simple. What would you think about a book where a fat kid starts drinking Gatorade every day, becomes a musclebound Adonis without ever lifting a single weight, dumps his bullies in the trash, and hooks up with a hot rich girl who falls in love with him at first sight? Ridiculous, right? Nothing works out that easily in real life. So when a commercial tells us that drinking Gatorade will solve all of our problems, we know it’s not true, because nothing works out that easily in real life. We know this narrative is too simple to explain anything in our experience of reality.

Is escapism tantamount to burying our heads in the sand?

A lot of people nowadays will defend dumb, escapist texts like the Fast and the Furious movies, simplistic narratives without a grain of reality in them. They see narratives as entertainment, a pure matter of taste, and you can’t argue with someone’s taste.

As I argued above, narratives like this still have some value, but they’re definitely on the less equal side of “some texts are more equal than others”. They’re more interesting for what they say about the society that spawned them than for what they themselves say. Does that mean it’s wrong to enjoy them? Are people who enjoy these films hobbling their own ability to understand complex narratives, dooming themselves to believe every ideologue’s ranting?

Let’s go back to what Ruth Graham said about YA novels: “[T]he enjoyment of reading [YA] has to do with escapism, instant gratification, and nostalgia”. Graham argues that adults should feel ashamed for enjoying escapism, instant gratification, and nostalgia instead of finding pleasure in unraveling a complex, ambiguous narrative. This argument assumes that if you seek out those qualities in some of the texts you read, you then only seek out texts with those qualities.

But people can enjoy escapist and nostalgic texts without making those the only kind of text they enjoy. I can eat Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups every once in a while, and experience a moment of instant gratification and nostalgia, and yet still go out and enjoy the subtly layered flavors of a ratatouille, or the freshness of a spinach and mint salad. The problem isn’t that I eat Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, the problem comes when I eat only Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

Graham’s argument also assumes that every such text offers escapism, nostalgia, and instant gratification, and nothing else. But even a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup can be enjoyed from a more adult perspective. As I eat it, I can note how the chocolate has a peculiar graininess to it, unlike the smoothness of more expensive chocolate. The peanut butter has a dry, gritty texture unlike other peanut butters. It’s not exactly good, not by my adult standards, but it’s sweet and it brings back memories of my childhood. It also offers fodder for self-reflection: how much have my tastes changed since I was a child? Have I really gotten more sophisticated, or am I just living on Justin’s peanut butter cups instead of Reese’s? And sometimes, things you enjoyed in your childhood turn out to be more complicated than you expect. I don’t have a good food analogy, but when it comes to books, I read A Wrinkle in Time and its first two sequels again recently, and was amazed at how much deeper and more complex they were than I remembered. Unlike The Chronicles of Narnia and The Hobbit, which stand out in my mind as the other two important works that got me into fantasy and speculative fiction, the Time books directly engage with subtle ideas about morality, growing up, society, and one’s place in the universe, against a backdrop of unique fantasy elements that even start from a soupçon of real science.

So the answer to my rhetorical question from the heading title is, yes, escapism can be tantamount to burying your head in the sand, if you seek out only the lowest common denominator of escapist texts and consciously avoid taking on anything that might challenge you, if you purposefully blind yourself to anything deeper a text might be saying and focus only on its surface elements. And if you fall too deeply into this habit, you might not only stop developing your ability to understand and create complex, layered narratives, you might actually hobble it.

On the other hand, go ahead and eat the occasional peanut butter cup. It’s not going to kill you. You’ll still be able to appreciate that dish of paella.

Iron Fist: A Most Unremarkable Specimen

I’m a huge fan of the Marvel Netflix Universe. Ever since I saw Episode 4 of Season 1 of Daredevil last year, when Wilson Fisk goes from awkwardly courting a sexy art gallery owner to chopping off a Russian gangster’s head in the door of his car, I was entranced.

My opinions on the four shows are pretty widely held. Jessica Jones is my favorite, for the incredible plot, great villain, and the character of Jessica herself, who I love to watch. She’s such a beautiful trainwreck of a human. If you haven’t seen the show, picture Krysten Ritter (you know, the druggie girl from Breaking Bad who was Q’s daughter) playing a self-loathing version of Wolverine. Transplanting that gritty tough guy personality to a woman was brilliant, too; it really makes you think about the way double standards work in media representation. People look at it differently if a grizzled tough guy with a permanent five-o’-clock shadow like Wolverine guzzles alcohol and sleeps around than if a nice-looking young woman like Jessica does, and Jessica lives out the consequences of this in-universe. I loved the character so much that I bought all the collected editions of the Alias comic series where she debuted. Comics Jessica is older, a bit more collected, and slightly more emotionally mature than TV Jessica. Her sarcasm in the comics feels more a product of abiding cynicism than the emotional wreckage and self-loathing that seems to trigger it on TV. We get to see her caring side more often in the comics, the side of her that shows that, as broken and cynical as she is, she does still give a fuck about people. Also, she has an off-again on-again relationship with Ant-Man throughout the run of the comics. This is funny in the MCU context, the idea of Scott Lang, one of the lightest characters in the cinematic universe, in a relationship with Jessica Jones, one of the darkest.

As for the rest, I like Daredevil second best. I prefer Season 1 to Season 2; Season 2 had higher highs, but also lower lows. I liked Luke Cage a lot as a character, but his show suffered for lack of a great villain and some plotting and pacing issues, despite its great style and music. I’m not a fan of hip hop or R&B, but even I thought Luke Cage had a great soundtrack; for the way it brings the viewer into Harlem, it deserves praise.

The interesting thing about the Netflix MCU is that up to this point, the shows were not only beloved by fans but also by mainstream critics, and not in that “Yeah, it’s a shallow, noisy movie, but it’s fun and there are worse things out there you could be sitting through” way that the Marvel films get. All three of the shows until Iron Fist got genuine critical love. Luke Cage and Jessica Jones got the most for the smart ways they handled social themes around being black or female in America today, but Daredevil was also praised for having an exciting, well-crafted story with a great villain. While its social themes weren’t as obvious as Luke Cage or Jessica Jones, I still think Daredevil Season 1 had some nice examination of issues around social class and gentrification, and you could read the fog of mystery around Wilson Fisk as a metaphor for the ability of political actors in the modern day to spend massive amounts of money pushing their ideologies while hidden behind a smoke screen of front corporations, institutes, charities, and think tanks.

The critical love ended with Iron Fist, though. Not one critic I’ve seen had any words of praise at all for it. And I honestly can’t say I blame them. While I don’t think Iron Fist is as bad as it’s often been made out to be, it’s also not really good in any sense. The story is painfully slow moving, the fights are boring and badly staged, and interesting character traits and plot elements are forgotten or thrown aside in favor of uninteresting ones. The whole show has the feeling of a hurriedly made stepping stone on the way to The Defenders, the big Avengers-style crossover between the heroes of the four Netflix shows (which I’m eagerly looking forward to; if you thought Iron Man, Hulk, Thor, and Captain America had trouble getting along, wait until you get these four people in a room together. I’m predicting a scene where Danny Rand says something stupidly naive and Jessica Jones goes off on him and tells him how it really is, while Luke Cage shakes his head sadly and Matt Murdock looks uncomfortable and impatient).

You can pretty much split the problems with Iron Fist into four categories: the plot, the characters, the action scenes, and the social themes (or lack thereof). Yeah, that’s all the categories. Pretty much nothing in this show actually stands out as amazing, and all the aspects of it have some problems.

The Plot

—is boring and slow as fuck. Granted, it is not the most boring thing I’ve ever watched. I did manage to make it through the entire series. I only made it through one episode of Agents of SHIELD. But “it’s boring, but not the most boring thing ever” is hardly glowing praise.

One big problem with the plot of Iron Fist is that it wanted to be more grounded and gritty, like the other shows, so the writers avoided jumping into crazy kung fu magic right away by starting with a subplot about Danny convincing his childhood friends of who he is and joining his father’s company as a 51% shareholder, then causing a bunch of trouble with his stupid naivete. Naivete is Danny’s core character trait, as Claire even points out in a later episode (yes, she’s in this too). We’ll go into that more in the characters section.

This plot construction means we spend a lot of the early episodes in corporate boardrooms and fancy corner offices with Danny’s childhood friends, Ward and Joy Meachum. Both are decently characterized, though Joy is a little inconsistent. But the early episodes spend so much time with them. By comparison, I just watched the first three episodes of Daredevil again; Foggy and Karen get about fifteen minutes out of two episodes, which is just the right amount for us to get to know them without distracting us from the actual story.

But saying “actual story” implies that there is an actual story, and Iron Fist doesn’t really have an actual story. It does have some actual plot elements, but those on their own would only fill up about four episodes, and they don’t have any kind of meaningful climax. Still, later episodes at least get us out of the goddamn boardroom and out on the streets watching kung fu battles. (This ultimately fails to satisfy, as we’ll see in the action sequences section, but it’s better than watching a bunch of people we don’t care about arguing about corporate governance.)

So, to sum up, pretty much everything that happens in the first four episodes could have been resolved in like five minutes, then we get some decent story, then some more weird, belabored stuff that probably could have been resolved in like twenty minutes, and then a very disappointing finale that really throws into focus how bad the action scenes are.

But the main problem with the plot isn’t how boring or slow it is. The fundamental problem is that we’ve seen this all before. We’ve seen stories about someone who comes back from the dead and has to prove their identity. We’ve seen stories about young, fresh, idealistic guys who come in to a stodgy old company and start turning the way they do things upside down. The show hits all these beats we’ve seen before, and does absolutely nothing new with them. Then it spreads these stale old plot elements that we’ve all seen before over multiple episodes of belabored drama until we all cry out “Enough, we’ve seen this before!” It has the same problem with a lot of the magical kung fu material, but that at least is inherently exciting, unlike uninspired boardroom drama.

The characters

—are really annoying and inconsistent. I’m not one of those people who usually gets angry at fictional characters for doing something stupid or overlooking an obvious solution to their problems, but even I was wincing and going “Geez, Danny, why the hell did you do that?” more times than I’d prefer.

Danny is stupid. There’s no other word for it; he’s just not very smart. I mostly gave him a pass for this because I know he’s being set up as a boyish, naive character to contrast with the three dark, moody, gritty, street-smart loners that will make up the rest of the Defenders. But there were times when his actions defied sense, like when he breaks into Joy’s apartment in Episode 1.

Colleen Wing is probably the most interesting character, but they dropped a fascinating thread from the early episodes, where Danny finds out she’s been participating in underground cage fights and she admits she enjoys the feeling of being out of control and showing off her true skill. Instead, she becomes a sidekick and later girlfriend/sidekick. While her relationship with Danny wasn’t the worst relationship ever put on TV, it didn’t feel quite natural.

Ward Meachum is portrayed as a conniving asshole the entire series, only to have a sudden change of heart and become best friends with Danny towards the end. On the other hand, Joy Meachum was the one on Danny’s side, but she turns against him for poorly motivated reasons in the final episode. Her change of heart is better motivated than Ward’s, but there are still aspects to it that don’t make sense.

I liked seeing Jeri Hogarth, the lawyer from Jessica Jones played by Carrie-Anne Moss, get to show off her better side in this series. She was a very unpleasant person in Jessica Jones, but she was also at an extreme low point in her life, so seeing her be less ruthless in Iron Fist makes her seem more three-dimensional as a character.

I also liked seeing Claire Temple again. She was one of my favorite parts of Luke Cage, and we get a nice Easter egg when she reads a letter Luke wrote to her from prison. She isn’t as important and vital a part of the narrative here as she was in Luke Cage, though. Here she’s kind of another sidekick for Danny. The other annoying thing about her appearance, which is unfair and completely my own problem, is that she kept on dropping hints about all the other heroes she knows, but no one ever thought to try and ask them for help. Luke may be in prison, but Claire also knows Daredevil and Jessica Jones, yet when Danny runs off to fight his way through three deadly martial artists and rescue a girl from the evil bowels of The Hand’s base by himself, no one ever considers calling one of them for help.

The villains in Iron Fist are, if anything, even worse than Luke Cage. Harold Meachum, Ward and Joy’s father, is revealed as the main villain in a shocking twist that was also totally obvious ever since Episode 4. The fight with him in Episode 13 is...ah, I’ll talk about it in the action scenes section, but I think the best word for it is “pathetic”. There’s also Bakuto, who is sort of a less interesting ninja version of Diamondback with a weird voice. And Madame Gao is still going around making trouble. She’s the closest thing to a decent villain we get in Iron Fist, but later in the show she just kind of gives up and lets Danny fight with Bakuto and Harold while watching from the sidelines.

By the way, if there’s one thing that worries me about The Defenders, it’s the villain. Luke Cage and Iron Fist have both had trouble developing convincing villains, and The Hand, who are apparently going to be in play for The Defenders, weren’t amazing villains in Daredevil Season 2 either; they just got by because we had Elektra and The Punisher to distract us, so all we needed was a big army of disposable ninjas for them to plow through. It’s possible that The Defenders will survive with a disappointing villain on the strength of having all four heroes get together, the same way The Avengers and Age of Ultron did. (Yes, I don’t consider Loki a particularly engaging villain. I guess he’s more interesting compared to the villains in other Marvel movies, but that’s not saying much.) But Daredevil Season 1 and Jessica Jones were such strong stories largely because of their villains, and I attribute at least part of the weakness of Iron Fist and the later parts of Luke Cage to the lack of such a villain. I hope The Defenders can aspire higher.

The action sequences

—are not very good.

After I watched the series, I saw some news items indicating that Finn Jones, the actor who plays Danny (and also Ser Loras Tyrell, the gay knight in Game of Thrones) only had about three weeks to get in shape and learn martial arts before filming started, and he would get about fifteen minutes to practice a fight before they started filming. It shows. It really shows.

Sometimes the fights are still pretty good. There was a fight scene in the back of a truck in Episode 5 that was filmed in short, jerky, close-in shots so you couldn’t tell how slow and clumsy the actors actually were. Colleen’s two cage matches in the early episodes are at least competently performed and manage to evoke a genuine sort of tension at times. (Although I find it funny how quick the big, tough guy in the first fight was to jump into the ring with her after all the hooting and booing that the audience was up to. Dude, you’re walking into a lose-lose situation. If you win, you’re a hulking six-foot man who just beat up a five-foot-tall woman. Gee, what a man. And if you lose, you’re a hulking six-foot man who just got beat up by a five-foot-tall woman. Ha, what a loser!) The final battle with Bakuto in the rain is also decent.

Most of the fights, however, are closer to something that would maybe be passable as a dance routine on America’s Got Talent. They would probably get an enthusiastic pass from two of the judges and maybe a weak pass from a third. In Episode 6 we get a three-fight tournament style battle that should have been awesome, but the fights themselves were so underwhelming that it was hard to enjoy. All I could keep thinking of was the last part of the Kyouto story in Rurouni Kenshin, when Shishio invites the heroes to a similar tournament against his three champions, and how much better it was in every way. The second fight wasn’t even a real fight; it was a weird, out of place, clumsy attempt at seduction followed by a woman sticking poisoned acupuncture needles in Danny.

Colleen carried a katana everywhere, but she seemed oddly reluctant to actually cut anyone with it, and it bugged the shit out of me. It reminded me of watching cartoons in the 90’s, when characters would have guns or swords, but they couldn’t actually use them. Gargoyles was one of my favorite shows, but it always bugged the hell out of me that Elisa could never fire her gun and Hudson could never actually use his sword to cut up anyone. Elisa’s gun would always get knocked out of her hands or crushed, and Hudson would seem to forget he even had a sword unless there was a rope he could cut to make something fall from the roof onto his enemies. (Until the battle droids came out; then it was all slicing and stabbing.) Colleen practices the same style of swordsmanship; she mostly just attacks the other person’s weapon and misses perfectly good chances to stab dangerous, gun-wielding enemies, instead choosing to laboriously fight them off with her fists. I understand that they didn’t want Danny or Colleen to kill anyone, but Daredevil never really kills anyone either, yet he is constantly breaking arms and occasionally throws Russian gangsters off of roofs, because that’s what you have to do when you’re in a realistic universe fighting dangerous gun-wielding gangsters with just your fists and a stick. Colleen is a darker character than Danny, and she carries a goddamned katana, so it would have been in-character for her to cut off some limbs, especially in the final battle when she’s fighting a bunch of thugs with guns.

Speaking of the final battle...yeah, it’s bad. Danny and Colleen clumsily fight their way up to the top floor of Rand Enterprises to take on Harold Meachum. Once the guns come out, the only reason they aren’t shot to pieces immediately is that all of Harold’s guards graduated from the Imperial Stormtrooper School of Marksmanship, so even Colleen, who has no superpowers whatsoever, can run through a hail of bullets without being hit, then beat up five guys one-handed. (She does it one-handed because the other hand is holding the sword that she’s not using.) It ends with a one-on-one rooftop fight between Danny and Harold, which is, as I stated above, pathetic. Danny Rand, the Immortal Iron Fist, the defender of K’un-Lun, the first white guy ever to overcome the dragon and gain the power of the Iron Fist, who has spent the entire series telling us at every opportunity that he is, in fact, the Iron Fist, fights one-on-one on equal footing with a company CEO in late middle age who drinks lots of veggie juice. Actually, he gets beaten by a company CEO in late middle age who drinks lots of veggie juice. He isn’t killed only because Ward comes to the roof and shoots Harold.

If Jet Li couldn’t beat an old white guy who drinks juice, I’d call bullshit. Finn Jones is no Jet Li, but his character is supposed to be. And he can’t do it. Not even with supernatural powers. This takes the half-baked, awkward battles of the rest of the show to a whole new level of stupidity.

The social themes

—are not there. There aren’t any. There are a few weak attempts at doing corporate responsibility as a theme, but it’s poorly developed and has no real payoff or conclusion.

Not all good stories have social themes. Breaking Bad has no overt social theme, but it’s a well-made show with a great story and interesting characters, and many critics agreed. I also believe in the power of implicit social themes, ones that you only get by analyzing the context of a story. The Spider-Gwen comics, for instance, are almost indistinguishable in story content from the early Amazing Spider-Man, just transplanted to 2015. But just by doing that, they’re implicitly validating the idea that female superheroes are just as worthy of attention as male superheroes, that they can have all the same admirable qualities and all the same flaws and foibles. I think it’s worthwhile to do stories like that alongside stories like Jessica Jones that hinge more directly on the main character being a woman. Implicit social statements often don’t seem noteworthy twenty years later. No one who watches Star Trek nowadays finds it remarkable that Uhura works on the bridge with all the white men. But it was an important message for people at that time that a black woman could be a professional in a trusted position alongside the white men.

So it’s not like Iron Fist needed to have social themes. Not having them does make it more boring, but it doesn’t irreparably damage the show in my eyes. A lot of critics did castigate the show for its lack of social themes, but I think that came less from an overriding belief that every show needs to have social themes, and more as an easy symbol for the fact that this show offers absolutely nothing new from a storytelling or character perspective. It’s a story about a dumb, naive, heroic, powerful white guy with a simplistic sense of morality fighting against evil ninjas and scheming corporate leaders. It’s Monkey D. Luffy starring in Batman Begins.

Apparently there was a whitewashing controversy over this show. There seems to be a whitewashing controversy over everything nowadays. Sometimes it has merit; nothing against Tilda Swinton, but the reasons given for casting her as the Ancient One in Doctor Strange were, let’s say, reasons that I had a problem with. It doesn’t bother me that they cast Danny Rand white; Danny Rand in the comics was white, and frankly, he’s such a doofus in this show that I’m glad he’s not Asian American. As a quasi Asian American, I don’t want him as the representative of my people in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Colleen Wing in the comics is, as far as I can tell, half white and half Japanese, so casting half white and half Singaporean Chinese Jessica Henwick was a pretty good call. Bakuto’s casting does bother me a bit, though. He’s a ninja with a Japanese-sounding name, but he’s played by Puerto Rican Ramón Rodríguez. If he gave a good performance, it might not bother me, but he doesn’t; he’s a stereotypical villain with cheesy monologues delivered in a weirdly effete voice that’s half 80’s cartoon and half Roger Moore-era Bond villain. Some of this is obviously the writing and direction’s fault, but Rodríguez does nothing to make it better. Meanwhile, two much more menacing villains played by Asian actors, Drunken Fist Guy and Room Full of Weapons Guy, don’t even have names. (Room Full of Weapons Guy first appears in a karaoke room full of people he massacred, which is by far the most competent evil thing anyone does in this show.) Iron Fist’s buddy Davos, apparently a native of the Chinese-themed K’un-Lun, is named after a Swiss city and played by Sacha Dhawan, an actor born in England to Indian Hindu parents. Ethnically, Dhawan was also a somewhat odd choice, but unlike Rodríguez, he does give a good performance, so it doesn’t bother me.

Conclusion

I was pretty hard on Iron Fist in this review, but it’s honestly not completely terrible, more incessantly mediocre. When the plot isn’t being boring, it’s decent at building anticipation, but this anticipation is usually let down by lukewarm plot twists and the terrible action scenes. The characters aren’t badly written and they’re mostly competently acted (except for Bakuto), but there’s nothing new about them. There are no characters like Wilson Fisk, like Jessica Jones, like Kilgrave, like Misty Knight, who completely take over the screen and keep on surprising you with how they develop. Colleen is definitely the most interesting, and she’s the closest to being something different, but none of the interesting parts of her character ever go anywhere: her struggles with money evaporate when Danny buys her building; her exasperated, “don’t get me involved” attitude disappears as soon as Danny buys her a fancy dinner and asks her to help scope out The Hand’s drug shipment; her lust for combat gets forgotten and abandoned around the same time; and her desire to help out the disadvantaged kids in her neighborhood ends up feeding soldiers to The Hand, but she never takes a moment to regret this, instead jumping to make up with Danny and get involved in his pathetic final battle against an old guy who makes juice.

Sorry, I got sidetracked. Good things about Iron Fist. Right. Well, there aren’t many (really any), but there also aren’t any flagrantly terrible things about it. It’s a solid 2.5 out of 5: bland, artistically inoffensive, its major crime infliction of boredom. It only makes the leap to really terrible if you get riled up over its lack of social themes or the whitewashing stuff, but as I said, I don’t really consider Iron Fist whitewashed because Danny Rand was white in the comics, and although they could have reasonably changed him to Asian American, I’m not sorry they didn’t because then the dumbest, blandest hero in the Defenders would also be the Asian one, which does about as much for representation as Challenge of the Superfriends did by adding Apache Chief and Black Vulcan.

The mediocrity of Iron Fist is only noteworthy because it comes on the heels of three amazing shows that I, honestly, enjoy a lot more than the MCU films. Iron Fist feels like one of the films trying to be one of the Netflix shows. It doesn’t take any chances with its story or characters, like the films, which mostly rely on a hero with a big personality surrounded by the same set of standard supporting characters proceeding through one of a few different simple plotlines. But it throws away the things that the films focus on instead—the colors, the quips, the fun, the incredible action scenes, the spectacle—and treats its bland characters and story as if they’re as engaging and challenging as the other Netflix shows’. The previous three shows, despite their imperfections, were incredible, and Iron Fist didn’t live up to any of them on any count. It’s hard not to be disappointed by that.

It’s also unfortunate that Iron Fist might turn out to be required viewing to follow The Defenders when it comes out. Not many plot details have been released about The Defenders, but what has come out suggests that it’ll involve the big hole in the ground that The Hand was digging in Daredevil Season 2, which means The Hand will be the villains, which means things we learn about them in Iron Fist might come into play. Works that take place in a big shared universe have their pros and their cons, and this is one of the cons: sometimes you have to keep up on the mediocre stuff to be able to follow what’s going on in the really good stuff. That’s really the only reason I could recommend that someone watch Iron Fist; it doesn’t gain anything interesting from being in the MCU, and there are better corporate dramas and better kung fu movies about there, so there’s no real reason to watch a show that’s half corporate drama, half kung fu movie, and not particularly good at either.