So I finally got through the final volume of the reprint of Crying Freeman. And after all this violence, double-dealing and two-fisted Triad-on-Yakuza action, I'm really left with one thought over everything else:
Holy crap, that's a lot of naked people.
Seriously. Imagine, if you will, a collaboration between Martin Scorsese, John Woo and Russ Meyer. You can pretty much guarantee any name character mentioned more than twice will be naked at some point, if not actually having sex.
Freeman? Naked all the time; I don't know why the man even owns clothes.
His wife? Oh yeah. Big time naked.
His morbidly obese adopted sister? That's a whole lotta woman, and you get to see every last square inch.
Now I'm not entirely opposed to the sex and nudity in and of themselves, but it really comes off as gratuitous and a little distracting at times. Especially in a combat sequence. When he faces off against an opponent, Freeman's thought process seems to flow along these lines:
1) Remove as much clothing as possible
2) Stand in dramatic pose to show off sweet dragon tat*
3) If opponent is female, make with the sweet sweet lovin'
4) If opponent is male, hold a knife between two toes and stab him in the head.
5) If female opponent is not swayed by the SSL, see step 4
See, right at step one you've lost me. Maybe things are different when you're the greatest assassin in the Pacific Rim; for me, if I'm in a fight for my life, I'd want all my dangly bits securely tucked away. Preferably with some Kevlar in there. But nobody in Freeman's world seems to find this behavior the list bit noteworthy: "What? All the great underworld figures fight buck naked. No, he won't try to grab me by the wedding tackle. That's just silly."
Ultimately the comic was enjoyable enough for me to keep reading, in spite of the distractions. The artwork is a huge departure from the typical manga styling, with very realistic character design. For all those out there who decry the "big eyes small mouth" standard, it can be a welcome change. The violence is appropriately hyped, of course. While it may seem odd to carry on about the sexual aspect and only give the buckets of blood a passing mention, that's kind of my point: this is a story about an underworld assassin and the people he fights with and against. Violence is an inherent part of the package. I expect to see Freeman make with the stabbing. What throws me is that he seems so driven to do it with his wing-wong hanging out for all the world to see.
*-OK, I'll admit, if I had to go through what he did to get that tattoo, I'd be showing it off every chance I got, too.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
In Which A Singularity of Awesome Is Formed
Just came back from seeing The Bank Job - a dang good flick in its own right - and before the show, I caught the trailer for The Forbidden Kingdom. I'm not...quite sure about Jackie Chan in dreadlocks, but still.
Jackie, meet Jet. Jet, Jackie.
The longest 42 days of human existence start today.
Jackie, meet Jet. Jet, Jackie.
The longest 42 days of human existence start today.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
In Which The Dice Fall Silent
It's a few days late (ain't that the story of my life), but now that I'm feeling marginally human again, I don't think I can really let it go by without saying something about Gary Gygax.
There are a lot of memorials out there already, ranging from funny to downright touching. I don't really have one of those; this is more of a reflection on gaming and my relationship with it.
Compared to a lot of my generation's nerds I was a bit of a late bloomer when it comes to gaming. I never picked up a d20 or saw the inside of a PHB until I was 19. Growing up in a fairly traditional Christian household, I'd been raised to equate D&D with devil-worship, black magic and all that fun stuff. Now, before this goes any further, understand - I am not trying to paint my childhood like it was a living Chick tract. As misguided as they were about the evils of dice with more than six sides, my parents are not screaming zealots. They bought into the hype and made a decision on bad information. It happens.
Given that background, it is perhaps the greatest irony that I was introduced to the hobby through a group of friends I met at a bible study shortly after I arrived at my first duty station in 1997. I think that first character, a ranger, lasted all of two sessions. There was a web spell, flames were involved...his was a short, unhappy life. But the hook was in. As I stumbled my way through those first few sessions, I started to realize: yeah, maybe these guys are a little weird, but overall they're just...guys (I don't recall if we had any girls around the table at that point, though a few did drift in later on). No black masses, no dark arcane rituals, and the only animal sacrifice was whatever went into those Taco Bell burritos.
And this stuff was actually kind of fun.
That first group of gaming buddies was kind of a mixed blessing, looking back. On the one hand, they were a great bunch; I made some great friends, and I still keep in touch with a few even though it's been almost ten years since our dicing days and they all live five or six states away. We weren't always the strongest role-players, maybe, but the sessions were almost always fun. The downside, of course, is that when I left the group I was rather spoiled. I'm sure the nostalgia factor is kicking in a bit, but I don't think I've ever found quite the same rapport with my gaming groups since then.
These last few years have been especially lean, gamewise. Sure, there are a few comic stores around I could probably sound out, but I've found as I get older my tolerance for spending hours at a table with strangers of dubious hygiene is dropping fast. Not many of my friends play. And now there's a good chance my time in Omaha is coming to a close later this year. Still, wherever I end up, I'll probably get the urge to dust off the Crown Royal bag and track down some kobolds to skewer.
For the late nights (and some early mornings), the good friends and the vast consumption of junk food: here's to the Double-G.
There are a lot of memorials out there already, ranging from funny to downright touching. I don't really have one of those; this is more of a reflection on gaming and my relationship with it.
Compared to a lot of my generation's nerds I was a bit of a late bloomer when it comes to gaming. I never picked up a d20 or saw the inside of a PHB until I was 19. Growing up in a fairly traditional Christian household, I'd been raised to equate D&D with devil-worship, black magic and all that fun stuff. Now, before this goes any further, understand - I am not trying to paint my childhood like it was a living Chick tract. As misguided as they were about the evils of dice with more than six sides, my parents are not screaming zealots. They bought into the hype and made a decision on bad information. It happens.
Given that background, it is perhaps the greatest irony that I was introduced to the hobby through a group of friends I met at a bible study shortly after I arrived at my first duty station in 1997. I think that first character, a ranger, lasted all of two sessions. There was a web spell, flames were involved...his was a short, unhappy life. But the hook was in. As I stumbled my way through those first few sessions, I started to realize: yeah, maybe these guys are a little weird, but overall they're just...guys (I don't recall if we had any girls around the table at that point, though a few did drift in later on). No black masses, no dark arcane rituals, and the only animal sacrifice was whatever went into those Taco Bell burritos.
And this stuff was actually kind of fun.
That first group of gaming buddies was kind of a mixed blessing, looking back. On the one hand, they were a great bunch; I made some great friends, and I still keep in touch with a few even though it's been almost ten years since our dicing days and they all live five or six states away. We weren't always the strongest role-players, maybe, but the sessions were almost always fun. The downside, of course, is that when I left the group I was rather spoiled. I'm sure the nostalgia factor is kicking in a bit, but I don't think I've ever found quite the same rapport with my gaming groups since then.
These last few years have been especially lean, gamewise. Sure, there are a few comic stores around I could probably sound out, but I've found as I get older my tolerance for spending hours at a table with strangers of dubious hygiene is dropping fast. Not many of my friends play. And now there's a good chance my time in Omaha is coming to a close later this year. Still, wherever I end up, I'll probably get the urge to dust off the Crown Royal bag and track down some kobolds to skewer.
For the late nights (and some early mornings), the good friends and the vast consumption of junk food: here's to the Double-G.
Monday, March 3, 2008
In Which The Mighty Have Fallen
Ugh. I'm trying to actually get this thing up and post something interesting enough to, I dunno, have a reader. So what happens? I finally catch the bug making its way around the office.
Figures.
Figures.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
In Which A Hero Arises
Right, so...here I am. Part of Blogger Nation at last. Hello, random strangers looking for a window into my life.
Honestly, I think that's what I've never quite grasped about the whole thing: the fascination with, in essence, looking into other people's heads and giving them a peek into mine. I'm an introvert, sure, so maybe that's the root of it. I look at the blogoshpere (oh, English, you poor tortured thing) and see the digital equivalent of a room full of people all talking at once. So I go into my default mode for dealing with these situations: I stand somewhere out of the way without trying to look like I'm getting out of the way, and every now and then when there's a lull in the noise I pipe up about the subject at hand. It's not much fun at parties, but it greatly reduces the chance of me making an absolute tool of myself.
So why am I here? Well, I guess I want my piece of the soapbox after all. I've got things to say, no matter if anybody listens or not, and by gum I'm going to get 'em said. So stick around.
Honestly, I think that's what I've never quite grasped about the whole thing: the fascination with, in essence, looking into other people's heads and giving them a peek into mine. I'm an introvert, sure, so maybe that's the root of it. I look at the blogoshpere (oh, English, you poor tortured thing) and see the digital equivalent of a room full of people all talking at once. So I go into my default mode for dealing with these situations: I stand somewhere out of the way without trying to look like I'm getting out of the way, and every now and then when there's a lull in the noise I pipe up about the subject at hand. It's not much fun at parties, but it greatly reduces the chance of me making an absolute tool of myself.
So why am I here? Well, I guess I want my piece of the soapbox after all. I've got things to say, no matter if anybody listens or not, and by gum I'm going to get 'em said. So stick around.
In Which We Learn Not To Fear The Kawaii
For all that there are still some out there who insist on lumping anime into "those Japanese cartoons," the fact of it is we're talking about a medium, something which can be used to portray anything your squirrely little brain can conceive. My own collection, in all its towering, six-foot-rack, two-hundred-and-eighty-disc glory, runs the gamut. It can be a dense nugget of pseudo-myth and philosophy (I'm looking at you, Gasaraki). It might be a slapstick romance held together with fan service and safety pins.
It might be something like Ichigo Mashimaro (Strawberry Marshmallow in Plain 'murican): a light little bit of absolute fluff with no weight, no deep meaningful message and buckets of charm.
Now let me say this before I really get going: much as I enjoy it, I seem to run consistently behind the anime power curve by a year or two, so you probably won't find any new insights here if you've seen the show already.
It's a sure thing you can't fault Barasui, the author of the manga, for not warning you upfront. This is going to be exactly what it says on the tin - very light and very very sweet. Seriously. Diabetics would be advised to consult a doctor before approaching it. Watching this is like mainlining uncut distilled essence of moe.
The story's entire premise is this: five girls, one twenty (or sixteen, depending on whether you watch or read), two twelve and two eleven, go around doing...stuff. That's it. The biggest drama is whether or not the girls will get their homework in on time. If you want giant robots, explosions or gobs of romance and angst you ought to move along. Shoo. Go on.
If you're wondering what that leaves to see, well, you can have my place in line. I wasn't at all sure about this whole thing; I can rather proudly say the day-to-day life of the average twelve-year-old girl fails to pique my interest. But my queue at RentAnime was getting thin, and the rabble at TV Tropes were mostly positive about it. So when the first disc turned up, I popped it in, got comfy and let fly.
The initial sugar-shock was rough, but I stuck it out - and oh, boy am I glad. As sweet as this story is, it easily could have devolved into absolute glurge. Fortunately Barasui and company counter this tendency by bringing the funny in great big handfuls. Most of the humor comes from Miu, the hyperactive, over-imaginative loudmouth of the group. If you find yourself wanting to give her a smack (and you probably will), fear not - she takes her lumps early and often. In fact, this is one of the show's best running gags: at least once an episode, Miu will cross the line at a dead run - and the scene immediately cuts to her laid out, usually by fellow twelve-year-old Chika (the "average" one and voice of reason) or Chika's older sister Nobue (who is an elegant reminder that age should never be confused with maturity). The two youngest girls, shy little Matsuri and fish-trying-to-be-out-of-water Anna, are mostly there as foils for Miu, but each has sufficient character to stand on her own when they have to.
If you think you can handle the sweetness, I definitely recommend you pick this up. Should you make it to the third disc (of three, this isn't a long runner), you will find yourself rewarded with the absolute funniest bath-house scene ever. That alone makes it worth the trip.
Thus endeth the lesson.
It might be something like Ichigo Mashimaro (Strawberry Marshmallow in Plain 'murican): a light little bit of absolute fluff with no weight, no deep meaningful message and buckets of charm.
Now let me say this before I really get going: much as I enjoy it, I seem to run consistently behind the anime power curve by a year or two, so you probably won't find any new insights here if you've seen the show already.
It's a sure thing you can't fault Barasui, the author of the manga, for not warning you upfront. This is going to be exactly what it says on the tin - very light and very very sweet. Seriously. Diabetics would be advised to consult a doctor before approaching it. Watching this is like mainlining uncut distilled essence of moe.
The story's entire premise is this: five girls, one twenty (or sixteen, depending on whether you watch or read), two twelve and two eleven, go around doing...stuff. That's it. The biggest drama is whether or not the girls will get their homework in on time. If you want giant robots, explosions or gobs of romance and angst you ought to move along. Shoo. Go on.
If you're wondering what that leaves to see, well, you can have my place in line. I wasn't at all sure about this whole thing; I can rather proudly say the day-to-day life of the average twelve-year-old girl fails to pique my interest. But my queue at RentAnime was getting thin, and the rabble at TV Tropes were mostly positive about it. So when the first disc turned up, I popped it in, got comfy and let fly.
The initial sugar-shock was rough, but I stuck it out - and oh, boy am I glad. As sweet as this story is, it easily could have devolved into absolute glurge. Fortunately Barasui and company counter this tendency by bringing the funny in great big handfuls. Most of the humor comes from Miu, the hyperactive, over-imaginative loudmouth of the group. If you find yourself wanting to give her a smack (and you probably will), fear not - she takes her lumps early and often. In fact, this is one of the show's best running gags: at least once an episode, Miu will cross the line at a dead run - and the scene immediately cuts to her laid out, usually by fellow twelve-year-old Chika (the "average" one and voice of reason) or Chika's older sister Nobue (who is an elegant reminder that age should never be confused with maturity). The two youngest girls, shy little Matsuri and fish-trying-to-be-out-of-water Anna, are mostly there as foils for Miu, but each has sufficient character to stand on her own when they have to.
If you think you can handle the sweetness, I definitely recommend you pick this up. Should you make it to the third disc (of three, this isn't a long runner), you will find yourself rewarded with the absolute funniest bath-house scene ever. That alone makes it worth the trip.
Thus endeth the lesson.
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