Quem cria as aberturas e finais do anime? As impressionantes sequências do presente e a evolução histórica de seus criadores

Como ela conseguiu esse show? Os românticos da platéia foram rápidos em perceber que sua carreira conversou com a da lenda tardia Isao Takahata . Seu interesse compartilhado pelas pessoas os trouxe para explorar tópicos semelhantes, embora com ângulos próprios que ocasionalmente cruzam caminhos. Especialmente em sua atual era freelancer, Yamada foi autorizada a revisitar trabalhos específicos que Takahata estava com as mãos no passado; while it never came to fruition, he’d once planned to direct a Heike Monogatari anime like she eventually did, and now she’s been allowed to share her interpretation of a character that he had already explored in the masterful Akagi no Anne (1979).

For as interesting as it is to explore that relationship between creators, though, it’s a more tangible reason that led to this specific Colaboração. Em uma entrevista para a edição de julho de 2025 da Animage, Yamada confirmou o que as pessoas que estavam prestando atenção em sua recente carreira já haviam conseguido adivinhar. Ou seja, que foi um convite do diretor de diretorias de Anne Shirley em série: (監督, Kantoku): a pessoa responsável por toda a produção, tanto como tomadora de decisão criativa quanto supervisor final. Eles superaram o resto da equipe e, finalmente, têm a última palavra. No entanto, a série com diferentes níveis de diretores existe-diretor-chefe, diretor assistente, diretor de episódios da série, todos os tipos de papéis não padrão. A hierarquia nesses casos é um cenário de caso a caso. Hiroshi Kawamata que a deixou tão ansiosa para aceitar o trabalho. Ela chegou a se chamar fã dele, feliz em trabalhar certo sobre qualquer coisa que ele cria. É fácil ver que ela não estava blefando para fins de RP; Em 2022 e também para o estúdio de resposta, Yamada havia confiado a ele os designs originais de seu episódio no moderno Tóquio Antologia. Nesse mesmo recurso de revista, Kawamata deixa uma carta curta, onde ele compara o ofício de Yamada para adaptar uma bela roupa que poderia fazer com que alguém invade um passo alegre-assim como o protagonista. Serve para dizer que a apreciação como artista é mútua. Imaginação e curiosidade maravilhosas são idéias tão evocativas de Anne Shirley quanto seus tranças e cabelos ruivos, por isso são o foco do início da sequência. Yamada Roots o primeiro em algo que você pode apreciar desde o início da história: as tentativas do protagonista de processar a tragédia imaginando alternativas extravagantes. Mesmo depois de reconhecer isso, porém, ela fez a escolha de se concentrar na alegria inerente à abordagem de Anne ao mundo. seus gestos e o uso da floriografia para ilustrar como ela aprimora sua própria realidade com sua imaginação é distintamente falhada de Yamada, mas eu argumentaria que o aspecto mais importante reside no sonho que se sentia. Embora Essa abordagem não é nova para Yamada , você deve procurá-lo no tipo de storys, como o tipo de storys e o blue-bird , o tipo de storys-the do tipo de storys e.

Quando a abertura atinge seu segundo tempo, Yamada passa para enfatizar mais algumas idéias importantes no mundo de Anne of Green Gables. O primeiro é a passagem do tempo em si, que é gradual e significativo-pelo menos quando você não está correndo pela história como Anne Shirley-a ponto de meros mudanças de altura e penteados podem levá-lo às lágrimas. Com a mesma extravagância de antes, seus storyboards usam um relógio giratório para nos levar a instantâneos desse belo recurso, bem como o crescimento que chegou para chegar lá. E de maneira mais ampla, Yamada separa esse segmento final, construindo em torno das memórias, em contraste com a fantasia intrínseca da imaginação que define o começo. Tão importante quanto a perspectiva brilhante de Anne é o fato de que ela permite que ela leve uma vida gratificante, de modo que os storyboards também devem capturar todos os eventos que ela voltará para olhar com o carinho. É certo que mesmo esses são transmitidos com uma sensação de musicalidade que a própria Anne não pode escapar.

Mudar para o final envolve uma mudança radical no estilo, mas isso não torna o resultado menos reconhecível. A abordagem é bastante semelhante à ed para ping pong the Animation , totalmente animada pelo mesmo eunyoung choi com quem Yamada colabora hoje em dia. Desta vez, a animação Solo Key AnimationKey (原画 原画, Genga): esses artistas desenham os momentos fundamentais da animação, basicamente definindo o movimento sem realmente concluir o corte. A indústria de anime é conhecida por permitir que esses artistas individuais tenha muito espaço para expressar seu próprio estilo. O esforço vem pela mão de seu recente parceiro no crime Takashi Kojima, que também atuou como supervisor da abertura; Algo que você pode ter se deduzido percebendo que O protagonista sente que se perdeu no caminho para as cores de Kojima dentro de Design sheets. Um detalhe-chave no processo que as políticas de credibilidade anti-artística da NHK não permitiriam que você soubesse que a Yamada é a si mesma pintada toda a sequência, principalmente Aquarelas familiares . Se você está se perguntando o quão sinestésica é a visão do diretor, ela descreve a música como aquela que projeta um olhar quente e sua abordagem resultante como uma que pretendia manter a mesma tonalidade e temperatura-de novo, não é de admirar por que seu filme anterior era sobre uma garota que pode perceber que as cores. Se a abertura coletou a maioria das idéias que definem Anne como uma pessoa, o final se concentra na peça-chave final da série: The Green Gables. A sequência começa com um passeio suave pela ilha de Prince Edward; Vistas como a que você viu na carruagem que levou Anne para sua nova casa, polvilhada com os detalhes que despertaram sua imaginação. No entanto, não é necessariamente sobre ela. De qualquer forma, é sobre a vida em torno de Anne, daí a recusa de Yamada em retratar o rosto do protagonista-uma tentativa de enfatizar suas ações físicas, pois poderíamos testemunhá-los dos sapatos de seus pais adotivos. Nesse sentido, o corte final é um lindo encapsulamento de intenção. Vemos Anne correndo pelas costas, uma imagem que Mathew e Marilla testemunham inúmeras vezes desde o momento em que ela chega. E também, um que os lembra de seu crescimento, pois essa forma gradualmente se torna mais alta dentro do show. Mas, em vez disso, o final resume o que ela representa para eles: a luz quente em que seus cabelos ruivos distintos se transformam. Essa é a verdadeira essência de Anne Shirley e a melhor maneira possível de terminar cada episódio. lutas da segunda temporada de Kusuriya nos últimos meses; Problemas que, em última análise, não conseguem impedir que seja um momento agradável, mas isso certamente impedem o nível de polimento que caracterizou a primeira série. Mesmo que essa sequência não tivesse sido boicotada com o cronograma imposto a ela, ela não poderia ter competido com as altas de outro mundo do episódio nº 04. The artists led by China were effectively guests inserting a stunning short film within its broadcast, something they couldn’t have done for this batch of episodes because they had been busy… at the same studio, producing an equally sublime—yet stylistically very different—episode of Puniru.

That led to people expecting him to skip season 2 altogether, which is an understandable condition, yet fails to consider que ele está afligido a uma condição comum: pensando que Maomao é um excelente Gremlin. There’s also the fact that the specific relationships that brought him to the studio are still at play, as well as his fondness for aspects like Yukiko Nakatani’s design work, but those pale in comparison to the universal love for the toxic cat. Chinashi may not have been available to commit to the project the way he did during their first rodeo, but it’s no surprise that he found time to storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue. and direct a very nice opening sequence for the back end of this sequel.

Right off the bat, it’s clear that the main theme of the sequence is identity. This might sound familiar, but you can hardly blame different directors for focusing on the same idea when Kusuriya is all about people’s hidden sides and secret personas. After an intro that brilliantly uses the show’s logo to obscure the face of its protagonist—who isn’t exempt from having secrets—Chinashi deploys his main motif: fox masks. Those hold a narrative meaning that becomes clear as the story advances, but even before that point, the viewer will understand that they embody hidden secrets; even the fact that they have such an extraneous texture underlines that they’re artificially, deliberately obstructing the truth. You’ll see them hiding the secret identity that the entire series revolves around, antagonistic forces with much to hide, and amusingly, even a cat (beautifully animated by Shinako Takahashi) that turns out to be a clue in a grand conspiracy.

As the sequence approaches its chorus, that concept of identity makes an interesting pivot to become perspective. This leads to a reenactment of key scenes, though rather than seeing them as filtered through the protagonist, they’re reframed as POV shots in the shoes of the people who surround her. In many cases, their reasons for being there and acting the way they did (which we might not have considered when following Maomao’s view) are linked to these overarching mysteries, so the sequence invites the viewer to rethink the events. And for the last one, a sudden match cut returns us to the mask motif—and most importantly, it links to the gorgeous moving paintings of Geidai alumni Yume Ukai, evocatively informing the viewer about the world of Kusuriya.

The opening comes to a pleasant end with the type of emotionally loaded yet not ostentatious character animation you’d expect in a Chinashi sequence. Given this emphasis on identity and surprisingly important roles, however, it feels fitting to end by pointing to production assistantProduction Assistant (制作進行, Seisaku Shinkou): Effectively the lowest ranking’producer’role, and yet an essential cog in the system. They check and carry around the materials, and contact the dozens upon dozens of artists required to get an episode finished. Usually handling multiple episodes of the shows they’re involved with. Kazuki Fujisawa. Despite having garnered no attention whatsoever from viewers, his quiet grind at OLM has recently brought him to work with exceptional artists like Ayaka Nakata, the mysterious Wazuka Komamiya, and of course Chinashi himself. His consistency as of late assembling such teams makes it hard to believe that he’s accidentally hanging out with superlative creators all the time, so it’s a name I encourage others to start paying attention to.

The joy of GQuuuuuuX‘s ending, and of being able to enjoy Khara’s talents for once

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Khara is a weird studio. For the most part, that’s a positive statement. Not adhering to the norms of a diseased industry is a badge of honor, and even more so when your peculiarities resemble theirs. Possessing a very unusual concentration of directors in relation to their personnel, for example, tracks directly to the outrageous amount of inventive talent packed inside one building. Their production pace is also preferable to many alternatives; from their safe position, Khara is allowed to marinate productions for as long as they require it, rather than rushing them out the door because the next deadline is already looming on the horizon.

However, the studio can sometimes take this issue to the opposite extreme. It’s not always that Khara has a truly active production that has progressed beyond conceptual stages, let alone one that involves that incredibly talented collective of artists under their banner. Although most of them are free to appear as guests on projects elsewhere, there is added value to allowing them all to work together in an environment with exceedingly high standards and the ability to live up to them. Even if it hadn’t been an interesting work in its own right—which I believe it is, for all its faults—the mere existence of Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX would have been exciting due to the team behind it. After all, it’s not every day that we get to enjoy a new series by Kazuya Tsurumaki, further elevated by the multiple generations of brilliant artists affiliated with the studio.

Those creators range from their veteran founder Hideaki Anno to youngsters once trained as in-betweeners at Khara and who’ve quickly gone on to demonstrate their talent; look no further than Gen Asano, one of the new faces of mechanical 2D animation and a main contributor to GQuX. Among those younger yet already renowned figures, we find Touko “toco” Yatabe, a multitalented artist currently on the rise as both a designer and director. Within Khara, she’d already earned Tsurumaki’s trust as one of the storyboarders for Dragon Dentist, even acting as an assistant director on Shin Evangelion. And as a designer and animation director, you ought to look no further than the contributions to her most beloved franchise—most notably, leading the pack for the hit film The Birth of Kitaro.

Ever since her impressive student graduation film circa 2014 (which she added English subtitles to a few years later), Yatabe has stood out as an artist with storytelling inclinations. The two sides of her career make sense the moment that you realize that she designs characters with their tales in mind; not exactly a unique approach, but one she excels at in a way that comes across as effortless. Yatabe won’t present you with visuals artificially loaded with information that winks at the audience, but rather with natural, charming slices of what feels like larger worlds. As a regular contributor to the show, working alongside Tsurumaki for some of its best episodes, she’s deeply acquainted with a world she summarizes in a lively way for its ending sequence.

Off the bat, you might notice that Yatabe borrows a motif that has been surprisingly important to GQuX. For as sleek as the spotlights are in this ending, the repeated usage in the show has been linked to the two lead characters being forcefully dragged into dangerous positions. Whenever they’ve been in turning points for their lives, as exploitative systems claim that those dangerous turns are their fate, GQuX has signaled it with invasive beams of light… which the ending reimagines into cool, sometimes even cute stylizations. Similarly, the dangerous kirakira that much of the narrative revolves around turns into a similarly colorful piece of décor within their imagined shared room, and into the lighting itself once the two happily host a drinking party. For as tonally separated from the series as it sometimes feels, it’s also distinctly GQuX-esque.

The jump cuts across that believably cluttered room make this happy fantasy feel lived-in, and within them you can spot all sorts of nods to the often more tragic events in the story—like Machu dancing with the dress Lalah wears in episode #09. And without requiring a high number of drawings, the adorable, characterful animation sells it as one of the most charming endings of the year. The team behind it is mostly composed of women running similar circles as Yatabe herself, but also GQuX animation designers Yumi Ikeda and Shie Kobori; once the ringleader behind a very popular Gridman ship, Mayumi Nakamura couldn’t miss the opportunity to work with her friends for a sequence with similar vibes. It’s hard not to smile when watching the results of their work, for a studio we don’t usually get to see in motion.

YAIBA‘s rollercoaster, through its opening and ending

[Opening link] [Ending link]

Using an opening to ramp up the excitement and an ending to help viewers wind down is hardly rocket science—if anything, it’s easy to argue that this is their default, logical role. That said, it’s not every day that those sequences work in conjunction as effectively as they do in YAIBA; something it achieves not by finding common ground in the middle, but by allowing each of them to take their approaches to the extreme. And right at the start, that means getting you up to the show’s frantic tone with an explosive intro that also encapsulates its director’s more methodical side within its bombast.

You may know Hisaaki Okui aka Geso Ikuo as a webgenWebgen (web系): Popular term to refer to the mostly young digital animators that have been joining the professional anime industry as of late; their most notable artists started off gaining attention through gifs and fanmade animations online, hence web generation. It encompasses various waves of artists at this point so it’s hardly one generation anymore, but the term has stuck. animator who stood out in productions willing to collaborate with such young, then unproven talent in the early 10s. He was an interesting contributor in the likes of Ryochimo’s Yozakura Quartet, and I believe you can’t fully figure out his style without understanding his work in Dogakobo’s bouncy works of the era; look no further to his Hacka Doll opening being reminiscent of the Mikakunin music video that rewired the brain of a whole generation, including himself as he participated both in the series and this short film.

If there’s one collective of artists that is central to his career, though, that would be the Trigger-adjacent crew of ALBACROW that he co-founded and that we talked about fairly recently. Those rowdy environments shaped a wild, outspoken individual—enough to get sacked from his show right before its broadcast and then proceed to share spicy internal details every week—but with time (and through necessity), he has mellowed out. After all, he hasn’t only been a regular contributor as a director and animator for their works, but also been involved in their management and business operations. Ultimately, grasping those two sides of his helps you understand YAIBA’s opening as well. And maybe even more importantly, you get to smile at the fact that he had such friction with Production IG… just to end up heading the opening for the biggest IG Port TV show of the moment. Looks like he won that feud in the end.

For a show as energetic as YAIBA, only a sequence operating on the highest level of kineticism would have made the cut. Geso himself is prone to creating openings that feel fast and densely packed, though it’s interesting to see how he doesn’t always get around to it in the same way. His intro for the Blue Archive anime addresses the clash between overpopulated games and limited-scope adaptations by fast cutting like its life depends on it, getting away with such a sensorial overload through its beautifully clean aesthetic—a much better attempt at capturing its color in a broader sense (and also a literal one) than the show it’s attached to.

In contrast, his storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue. for YAIBA’s opening is willing to embrace stretches of relatively longer cuts or otherwise seamlessly connected shots; this is particularly obvious near the beginning, with the contributions by Yuki Hayashi and Shotaro Tamemizu combining into one sizable chunk of the opening with excellent flow. When it comes to this show, the fast pacing isn’t a consequence of needing to pack many references, but rather the quality that defines YAIBA altogether. And rather than more cuts, the strategy to capture that feeling is more into cuts; lots of sliding in and out of the frame, and of course, the thorough embracing of Kanada-style animation that makes all movement snappier and more eye-catching. In that regard, Yoshimichi Kameda’s corrections are invaluable, bringing even the animators who aren’t used to this level of intensity up to speed.

Similarly to the show itself, the diversity of styles it can fit under that Kanada-shaped umbrella is rather impressive. Yooto’s work is so angular and strikingly spaced that for a second, you believe the rest of the opening was round and smooth, while Takeshi Maenami doesn’t let his main animator role preclude him from standing out through distinct linework. Among all the blatant showcases of respect for Kanda and Kameda himself, it also stands out how Toshiyuki Sato’s segment pays homage to the original author; chances are that you’ve seen Gosho Aoyama’s monochromatic illustrations that highlight the pencil work, especially in his key visuals for the Detective Conan films, so it was rather sweet to see that approach reimagined into animation. For as renowned as Sato is, I believe he doesn’t get enough credit for his ability to dip into different styles or art forms altogether. He showed as much by being deeply involved in Bocchi the Rock’s arts and crafts projects, as well as in the aforementioned Witch Watch opening, where he carved a real print for just a second of footage.

Speaking of that Witch Watch opening, Geso‘s contribution over there also embodies how he has grown to be a rather calculated artist. Despite the tendency to associate this type of high-energy, manic work with off the cuff delivery, he is quite deliberate in a way that even Ishitani can attest; not only had he prepared a 3D previs of the shot he’d been assigned before their first formal meeting, but even proceeded to sent his own recordings of footage to iterate on it with different ideas. He’s the type of creator to meet YAIBA at its most intense, but also to give its opening a strict narrative and physical continuity that makes it flow in a way that makes sense to the viewer.

The moment-to-moment progression is satisfying because he’ll often follow the figurative lines of action and roughly match cut its protagonist through similar poses and locations. And in a genre where openings often devolve into a collection of disconnected characters and finishers, you can follow its protagonist in a self-contained tale of rushing to a confrontation, powering through the disappointment of his defeat, adventuring to power up, and facing his nemesis in a grand clash. It’s not particularly complicated—YAIBA never is—but combined with how nicely each cut is threaded together on a micro level as well, it becomes an opening that simply feels right on the whole.

Only the most laid-back vibes could calm you down after such a breathless opening and show, but thankfully, Atsuko Nozaki was up to the task. Just a few years ago, it was easy to argue that she was perhaps the most overlooked talent attached to studio WIT. Nozaki is an artist with a round style and cartoony inclinations, yet also the anatomical fundamentals to articulate true-to-life acting; add the two of them and combine them with the output of the studio she’s been working with, and she becomes a precious means of humanization for their often-gritty works.

Thanks to works like Ousama Ranking and her feline ending sequence for Great Pretender, people are now more aware of her big presence at the studio. However, there’s one side of Nozaki that most hadn’t gotten a taste of… unless they follow her on social media, where she exhibits that she’s an excellent illustrator with an exceptional eye for color. She has the ability to capture a tone through very economical palettes, and more often than not, her target is some sort of peaceful vista. For YAIBA’s ending, she chose to depict everyday routines bathed in soothing blues and warm yellows, alternating between naturalistic snapshots and Instagram-like cuts. The sequence captures her style perfectly, which is more impressive when you consider that it went through what she called an irregular workflow; Nozaki directed and storyboarded it, Maki Kawake drew the illustrations, then Nozaki herself participated in the painting after supervising those. The way it comes together as if she were the sole artist behind it, with the perfect atmosphere to counterbalance YAIBA’s usual loudness, earns it an enthusiastic shout-out.

Lazarus‘ ending: Mai Yoneyama’s surprising mood piece

[Ending link]

With its black silhouettes contrasted to solid, bright colors, playing to a snazzy non-vocal song, Lazarus couldn’t make its attempt to channel Cowboy Bebop’s energy clearer. Unlike the iconic Tank!, though, it loses the evocation of works like James Bond, and generally slows everything down to match a more melancholic sound. A more lethargic version of such a beloved opening might seem cynical even when they share series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. in Shinichiro Watanabe, but I’d rather focus on its impressive ending instead. Both in the artist behind it and what they achieved, it’s a pleasant surprise that should more than make up for any lack of surprise factor in the opening.

As you may already know, this sequence was directed and solo key animated by Mai Yoneyama. Perhaps best known as an illustrator nowadays, Yonemai’s entire trajectory shifted when she stumbled upon the art of Gainax-affiliated artists back in high school. As she explains in this conversation with fellow artist Kei Mochizuki for Pixivision, she bought a volume of the illustration book series Edge to learn from popular illustrators… just to find herself more drawn to the contributions of animators like Hiroyuki Imaishi and Yoh Yoshinari. Having reached the conclusion that the greatest artists go on to become animators, she found her way to the studio where many of those people who’d caught her attention worked: Gainax.

Any excuse to share Houkago no Pleiades is welcome.

At the studio, she grew particularly close to a group of women—who didn’t exactly represent the majority of their animators at the time—with a shared interest in aspects like fashion. They adopted the name of Chuo Line Anime Sisters, self-publishing a handful of books in the late 00s and early 00s. Apart from Yonemai, this group included Apocalypse Hotel’s director Kana Shundo, its character designer and chief animation directorChief Animation Director (総作画監督, Sou Sakuga Kantoku): Often an overall credit that tends to be in the hands of the character designer, though as of late messy projects with multiple Chief ADs have increased in number; moreso than the regular animation directors, their job is to ensure the characters look like they’re supposed to. Consistency is their goal, which they will enforce as much as they want (and can). Natsuki Yokoyama, and the designer for the also great Negaposi Angler (as well as the new Ranma ½) Hiromi Taniguchi. Which is to say, a group of artists who are currently on an amazing streak of original contributions to anime.

As Gainax effectively fell apart, Yonemai followed much of that team to Trigger projects, albeit in a freelance capacity this time around. Rather than sticking to animation roles, though, her success as a designer and increasing popularity allowed her to focus more and more on lucrative illustration work that nowadays constitutes most of her output. The sleek proclivities that had brought her together with those other fashion-savvy Gainax members, those roots as an illustrator, and the efficiency that animation work on tight deadlines had drilled into her shaped an artist you couldn’t mistake for any other. Stylish women or otherwise androgynous bodies, striking usage of color that is happy to embrace neons, and mesmerizing flowing hair drawn as if paint, make-up, and traditional effects animation blended together. A style that is so high on calories, and yet one that she can articulate in motion when she’s in leading positions for animated projects; the YOKU and COLORs music videos likely being the best known examples of this feat.

If there’s one word you’d never use to describe her modern style, that would be subdued. It’s not as if that restricts the moods she captures to high tension, lively ones. Look no further than the ending sequence she directed for Cyberpunk: Edgerunners to find those neons illuminating darker feelings—though again, hardly in a stylistically restrained way. She has also shown a willingness to embrace monochromatic worlds like in the aforementioned YOKU, though even then, she does so to weaponize the color accents. This is all to preface the surprise that was Lazarus’ ending: a melancholic, unnervingly soothing flyby of a world without color. Not exactly what one would expect from Yonemai’s usually bright output, yet such an effective way to bring every episode to a close.

Another reason why that sequence stands out the way it does is its incredibly bold commitment to a seamless piece of background animation, as the camera calmly examines every character and humanity altogether. Animating something like this presents multiple challenges, starting with the obviously prohibitive technical skill it demands. Maintaining the volume of entire bodies with a constantly shifting camera for a sequence this long, one that you’re going to key animate all on your own at that, requires a level of technical precision very few people have. In fact, you could argue that Norimitsu Suzuki is the only active animator in the industry who has proven time and time again to be able to tackle that challenge. As someone with a near computer-like ability to perfectly rotate any shape in his body, as well as the acquired experience to know when to betray that objective reality, Suzuki is simply on another level when it comes to this.

What about Yonemai, then? She has shown her ability to maintain the volume of human bodies even as they rotate, as you can briefly appreciate in sequences like that Cyberpunk ending. With this more demanding workload, her results ended up being undeniably rougher, though I would argue that you’re more likely to feel awe at the handcrafted artistry than be bothered by the imprecisions. One aspect I believe that she aced is the calm vibe it manages to evoke, which is hard to get across when they’re dealing with background animation. The tactility of this type of cut and the rarity of their deployment tends to cause the viewer to immediately tense up—a desirable quality in most of its usages—but given the tempo of the song and the mood that they want to evoke, Yonemai succeeds in soothing the viewer with the calculated, meandering camera. That accentuates the unsettling contrast with what is being shown, leading to an ending that isn’t only impressive on a technical level, but also quite interesting in its texture.

From solo animation effort to solo animation effort: Kengo Matsumoto’s emotive running in Cinderella Gray

[Ending link]

Just like Lazarus, Uma Musume: Cinderella Gray features an ending sequence storyboarded, directed, and solo key animated by a single individual. In this case, that leading role goes to Kengo Matsumoto, broadly known as an action animator yet clearly capable of more. The show’s opening—the comeback of Kotaro Tamura after a quiet year—does have its nice moments, applying the director’s cinematic stylizations to the more grounded side of the characters’ routines. This feels rather fitting in a series that begins with very humble competitions, in contrast to the grandiosity that Ume Musume stories have gotten us used to. That said, it’s Matsumoto’s ending that addresses the emotional core in a more memorable way, granting the sequence the unified charm you’re only likely to get out of near-solo efforts. In a franchise that has been shining in ostentatious ways as of late, this economical ending provides a different appeal.

If you asked people what is the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about Oguri Cap, Cinderella Gray’s amusing protagonist, most would answer that it’s running; others would say food, and they’d be correct as well. That first answer would be true of many characters in a series about horse girls racing each other, yet it holds special meaning for Oguri. Her backstory is as simple as it is effective: as a kid, she was confined inside for health reasons, unable to play around due to her weak legs. However, thanks to her mother’s careful treatment, she eventually was able to sprint outside like she’d always dreamed of. This process has given her a competitive edge rooted in a particularly flexible body, but for as fiercely as she competes when she gets a taste of professional running, there remains a fundamental love for the act of running that you might not find in an individual who could always take it for granted. And thus, Oguri Cap means running.

With that in mind, it’s amusing to think that this ending could have been completely different. In an interview for the June 2025 issue of Animage, Matsumoto explained that co-series director Takehiro Miura initially pitched a completely different approach to the ending, but that his interpretation of the narrative and the song it’d be paired with convinced him. It’s worth noting that Miura didn’t merely give him the OK, but rather actively contributed with ideas of his own as well; Matsumoto pointed in particular at the cut where the young Oguri runs toward her brighter future as Miura’s addition, during the period where he was revising the storyboards for the sequence.

The result of their combined efforts is an unassuming, very charming ending that captures the heart of the work. It begins with a first-person running shot, perhaps the most technically demanding one in the sequence. In that same interview, Matsumoto was asked about the challenge of animating so much running, and while he downplayed it somewhat because he found ways to use loops and reduce his workload, he admitted that walking animations are an endlessly deep challenge for any artist. They’re tasks you continue to face across your entire career, and yet they always present the opportunity to learn something new. Matsumoto also admitted to having a propensity for POV animation, so he was glad to have an excuse to put it to use at the beginning of a sequence where we’re placed on Oguri’s running shoes.

What follows is a nice summary of that backstory. While this is the least dynamic part, Matsumoto’s crafty tricks prevent it from ever getting stale. The refusal to hold lines makes the cute art feel alive even with the low drawing count, while the window to the outside serves as both a representation of the brighter life Oguri seeks outside and a showcase of the passing time with their seasonal variations. Most importantly, the choice to frame specifically these shots as 4:3 works on many levels; it’s physically narrower just like a childhood where you can’t play outdoors, it evokes the past in compared to the modern standard of 16:9 used elsewhere, and it enables the protagonist’s worldview to literally broaden once she’s able to run. It’s precisely in that cut proposed by Miura that the black bars disappear, dashing to the light with another POV cut that bookends her story.

The back end of the sequence is quite literally a victory lap for the protagonist, with another economical loop that still hides some interesting creative choices under the hood. Besides Matsumoto’s self-imposed challenge of handling the CG work himself as well, it’s the choices of color that are worth bringing attention to. He wanted a palette that fits the fresh feeling of the song, as well as an overall look that made it distinguishable at a glance from the grounded reality of the show itself; it had to be Oguri’s world, the place where she can run freely that she once dreamed of and is now attainable. Why go with that unorthodox mix of yellow and blue, though? The reason is simple: Matsumoto found out that those are the colors that horses can distinguish most easily. As always, Uma Musume’s commitment to its equine roots is undeniable.

Catch me at the Ballpark and Ninkoro‘s cute endings represent the charm of music videos in the era of Youtube

[Ninkoro ending link] [Catch me at the Ballpark ending link]

If you close your eyes and try to imagine a modern, animated music video on Youtube—not one that happens to be hosted there, but a short film made for the platform—there’s a specific look that will come to mind. Solid colors, be it in pastel form or with a more vibrant look, with a penchant for both contrast and cuteness. Which is to say, pinks galore! Design-wise, SD versions of characters will alternate with more striking looks, synergizing with storyboarding that also tends to swerve from full-body to close-ups. There’s a marked degree of stylization that allows for blending VFX with more traditional effects animation, and above all else, an aim for online virality that translates into catchy cuts like dancing performances. While that can require rather involved animation, there’s a certain economy tied to that style as well; everything is clearly built around assets that are expected to be reused, which is admittedly true of most animation, yet it’s not obscured here in the way it would be with the more naturalistic delivery you’ll encounter within a show or film.

Given that younger audiences are so familiar with that style, it’s no surprise to see it incorporated in commercial works as well. For one, it has a proven record of popularity, and just as importantly, the people making your cartoons are also human beings who have a decent chance of having gotten into similar videos. In that regard, it’s interesting to observe the ending for A Ninja and an Assassin Under One Roof, also known as Ninkoro. The broad idea of SHAFT’s in-house style is fairly compatible with all those characteristics we listed as emblematic of these music videos, so its ending is allowed to go all the way in that direction (down to featuring a song under the HoneyWork brand, a household name in that scene) without feeling like an uncomfortable departure. Interestingly, the sequence was led by a regular commercial animator—Rina Iwamoto, SHAFT associate who acted as its storyboarder, director, supervisor, and one of its key animators. Given the key role of the palette in nailing these specific vibes, though, it’s well worth shouting out Daniela Padilla as the individual behind its color script as well.

In contrast to that (successful!) attempt to emulate the artistry seen in a slightly different field, we also find cases where the exact same people in charge of those trendy videos are brought onto TV anime to lead opening and ending sequences. Independent artist Doromizu lent a hand on Catch Me at the Ballpark’s opening, but most importantly, produced its lovely ending sequence all on their own. By taking the two most recognizable colors from the protagonist’s design, Doromizu immediately gets that type of pop contrast that this type of music videos seeks. The cast is reimagined in cute, chunkier forms, but the animation—despite its fondness for loose smears—is careful to maintain the dancing choreographies easy to read, inviting viewers to dance along if they so desire. All in all, an adorable ending that feels representative of its era.

The opening that invites you to dance to Apocalypse Hotel‘s unique rhythm

[Opening link]

The theory of relativity ought to be true, because time spent in the vicinity of Apocalypse Hotel’s opening definitely flies by faster than usual. Part of that comes down to its already unusual commitment to one idea. Dancing may be somewhat of a common occurrence in openings, but it’s quite rare to see a sequence depicting a singular performance with essentially no interruptions. Even the couple of seconds that instead focus on the light leaving the protagonist’s home (just like its owner did) are tangibly set in the exact same place, making it all feel like one perfectly tight whole.

After dedicating thousands upon thousands of words to over a dozen sequences, it’s worth noting that this is the very first one handled by the series director—and perhaps it couldn’t be any other way, given how unique ApoHotel is. Kana Shundo, whom I’d love to discuss as the nexus for this show’s appropriately distinct team in another writeup, steps up as the storyboarder and director for the occasion. For series exploring the transience of things through a peaceful post-apocalypse, the opening will often be a quiet stroll across the setting accompanied by a song that may be content without lyrics. Even if it’s on the groovier side of things, it’ll make you want to sit comfortably on your chair rather than jump off it.

While that is a side of ApoHotel, its one-of-a-kind atmosphere also embraces many a ridiculous hijink to spice up the contemplativeness. Its energy bleeds into an opening sequence where the protagonist joyfully dances; first on her own, under a sole spotlight, but quickly alongside the merry band of creatures that join her hotel and expand its light. The way that each of them dances to their own tune is reminiscent of the wildly different cultures and organisms that meet in the show. Just like they do there, and despite those differences, they’re happy to chase the same goal in heterogeneous togetherness. Which is to say, that it rules when a group of weirdos do their own thing while hanging out.

To sell a sequence built around this single, straightforward idea, you’d need the type of impressive craft that ApoHotel is happy to put on display. Though it’s not ostentatious, the camerawork is bold; not afraid of demanding full-body shots that don’t allow for shortcuts in the dancing body, and also quick to frame the movements from tricky angles or spin alongside her. The skeleton of this performance is in motion capture footage—a more feasible idea when your parent company owns an entire studio for that—but that doesn’t mean you can take the volumetry of the resulting animation for granted. Just for that achievement, animation directors Natsuki Yokoyama and Ami Keinosuke deserve as much credit as Shundo for the success of this bewitching opening.

There are so many neat openings and endings we could be here all day

The previous season of Kuroshitsuji was blessed with an opening by Masashi Ishihama, rightfully considered one of the greatest figures in this field. Although his favorite stylizations don’t track to the themes of the current arc as directly as they did back then, the hope to have him back at a studio he’s often tied to was reasonable. You might think that missing out on him for this Emerald Witch arc might have been a disappointment, but Oka Okazaki’s new ending more than makes up for it. Their work often goes viral on social media because of its ability to retain illustrative quality in short clips of animation. This aspect synergizes with the fairy tale trappings, shining the most during the dancing sequences across the chorus; distinctly non-commercial feel to the animation, yet still impressive in its polish. Lindo trabalho. While some shows struggle in living up to their impressive OP/ED, Mono might have the opposite issue—the series is so impressively put together that you almost forget that it’s surrounded by very solid sequences as well. The opening directed by Hokuto Sadamoto doesn’t just capture the lively tone of their escapades, but also manages to be just as unsubtle about its relationship with Yurucamp as the episodes themselves. Meanwhile, the ending by Yasuhiro Irie (invited by designer Kuerun after their collaboration in Healer Girl) set off to be a calm sequence… until Irie heard the song and his animator instincts kicked in. Even after deciding to use a 360º camera rotation for the chorus, he considered the possibility of relying on 3D guidelines for it, but in the end he essentially drew it from scratch. The result, quintessential Irie goodness. Worth the price of admission with just one shot! The Shiunji-ke anime is the return of Ryouki Kamitsubo to series direction—something that means nothing to most people, and everything to enlightened minds with a taste for 00s to early 10s anime and SHAFT-adjacent works. While he delegated a fair amount of work for the opening and ending (the storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue. on the former to Toshimasa Suzuki, and the entire ending to Dogakobo’s promising Mitsuhiro Oosako), both sequences showcase Kamitsubo’s tastes. The specific usage of pastels and contrasting irotore should feel familiar, and even the imagery in Oosako’s ending with the screens infinitely splitting an image feels pitched by him. Worth mentioning that Kamitsubo himself is credited for its vector animation, corresponding to moments like the fun dancing at the beginning of it. And since it’s always nice to see him back home, shout out to Akira Hamaguchi for animating the money shot in the opening. You could argue that one also embodies his tastes. Since we’ve reached the pervert zone, it’s worth pointing out that barely hidden behind a pen name is Naoto Hosoda’s ending sequence for Summer Pockets. Broadly known for his action expertise as well as the beloved first season of The Devil is a Part-Timer, Hosoda is also an important figure in (and a big fan of) adaptations of visual novels and bishoujo games in a broader sense. Interestingly, and despite his action often standing out for his ability to strip down characters to their simplest, most dynamic forms, when he wants to get spicy with this other side of his career he goes all the way in detailed volumetry; shots like this are reminiscent of the illustrations he used to draw for his memorable adaptation of Shuffle, which is by all means praise. Food for the Soul aka Hibimeshi is a pleasant show that lives up to its explicit premise of being Non Non Biyori’s spiritual successor. Many key creators behind its predecessor return—most notoriously, its original author Atto provides the manga equivalent of storyboards and ensures that the gags retain the same excellent timing and childish (in a positive way!) sense of humor. Unfortunately, and perhaps with the exception of its ridiculous sound direction, the show is otherwise rather sloppily animated at P.A. Works… with the exception of a lovely ending sequence that they weren’t all that involved with. Shougo Teramoto, whose output is neatly split between commercial anime and commissions for streamers, handled the storyboarding, direction, animation supervision, color script, compositing, and a fair chunk of all the animations and backgrounds for this ending. A fun outing for the girls turned into a pretty, colorful motion comic makes for a highlight in an overlooked show. Do you have that type of friend you don’t feel the need to constantly ask how they’re doing, because you know the answer is undoubtedly going to be very well? Let me tell you something: you do, and his name is Monkey D. Luffy. One Piece‘s new opening may not be on the level of its extraordinary predecessors, but director Wataru Matsumi takes cues from Ishitani’s work and repackages them into a sequence that combines that pure distillation of ideas with more cinematic aspirations. The POV shots of hands, first by Yuki Hayashi and later by Jack-Amin Ibrahim to somewhat bookend the opening, are the emotional highlight of yet another good intro. At this point, the news would be if they’d managed to whiff one of these. Similarly, you just know that Ken “Leaf” Yamamoto is going to deliver something solid at the very least. His opening for Wind Breaker S2 isn’t immune to chronic issues in the genre; meaning, that it does feel the need to introduce too many characters and showcase them fighting no matter what. Whenever the sequence feels less pressured by those expectations, however, you get a pretty crescendo embodied by the usage of color. Leaf’s usual readability makes it easy to tell what he’s going for, while his elegance prevents that from coming across as too plain and basic. Not a surprise at this point, but he’s simply good at what he does.

The reason why we’re flooded with so many eye-catching OP/ED, and the evolution of their production process

If someone were to ask why this season has been so outrageously loaded with excellent sequences, the simplest answer would be to say that it was by chance. A lot of anime is planned, produced, then broadcast, and those final dates overlapping don’t even imply that everything else happened at the same time; the animation process of some of the sequences we highlighted today was years apart from others, so the fact that they all aired across this spring doesn’t mean much. Considering that this has hardly been the only time in recent memory with tons of outstanding examples, though, you start to wonder if there’s a more complex answer. As the epilogue of this celebration of so many magnificent sequences, it feels appropriate to explore the changes in the creation and perception of openings & endings that have gradually led us here, for the good and the less so.

Openings in particular have a long history of being deployed as not-necessarily-representative promotional tools. Generations upon generations of viewers have fallen for the bait of a gorgeously animated into, just to find out that it’s attached to a show that can’t even come close to the levels of technical excellence exhibited there; if they’re lucky, it’ll at least be a good series in its own right, making the misleading sequence an ultimate force of good. While that trick isn’t new, the way the lure is conceived has changed to a degree that long-time fans no longer recognize TV anime as they knew it. So, who exactly comes up with an opening?

The answer to that used to be a resounding it depends, but behind that disclaimer, there was a clear notion—the expectation that a series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. (someone on the kantoku level) would storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue. and direct them. While instances of delegation have essentially always existed, the default assumption was that it would be in the hands of the leader of the project or at the very least someone in their vicinity; which is to say, a member of the core staff or otherwise regular contributor to the project. That was true for decades, and yet, you may have noticed that we pointed out how only the last opening we highlighted across the main section of this article was directed and storyboarded by the same individual heading the show.

To illustrate this evolution, we went through the Spring seasons of the last couple of decades as well as the current one, then split the sequences between those led by the series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. (including their chief and assistants), ones by regular and main staff, and finally those conceived by a guest creator. While the exact numbers themselves don’t matter all that much—the lines between those situations can be blurry and there is variability within years and eras altogether—the overall trends they hint at paint a clear picture. When it comes to what we may consider modern anime, the results are as follows:

Spring 2005:

Series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. opening and ending sequences: 56.60% Key staff members and regulars opening and ending sequences: 32.08% Core team opening and ending sequences (previous two categories combined): 88.68% Guest director opening and ending sequences: 11.32%

Spring 2015:

Series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. level opening and ending sequences: 49.11% Key staff members and regulars opening and ending sequences: 29.46% Core team opening and ending sequences (previous two categories combined): 78.57% Guest director opening and ending sequences: 21.43%

Spring 2025:

Series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. level opening and ending sequences: 35.11% Key staff members and regulars opening and ending sequences: 19.68% Core team opening and ending sequences (previous two categories combined): 54.79% Guest director opening and ending sequences: 45.21%

Disclaimers: This is framed from a directorial standpoint, and further analysis would have to consider that guest directors sometimes work with the main team behind a work. Such arrangements can achieve results that feel representative of the specificities of the shows as a whole, as seen in cases like YAIBA. A more detailed analysis may require more granularity in the classification, although it’s also worth noting that you will ultimately hit walls of arbitrariness. After all, a guest creator who was reached out to only work on an opening or ending may end up helping on the show once that link has been established, even if they initially worked on it as a completely outside agent. In an industry so reliant on interpersonal relationships, the divide between the core team and outsiders can also be rather hazy. Regardless, this is a solid approximation to demonstrable changes.

As you can see, anime has left behind the days when it was essentially a given that its cool intros and closings would be a showcase of the ideas by the talent heading a show, to them being a coin flip between that core team and outsiders. If you’re wondering what the situation was like if we look further back, the truth is that these tasks were so weighted toward series directors that anime got away with little to no credits for these sequences; sometimes you’d only see some participating key animators, at other times the names corresponding to both sequences would be mixed together without specifics about their role, and more often than not, they simply wouldn’t be credited. While that obviously wasn’t great, it was way less of an issue than it would be nowadays, as you could safely assume the authorship.

When talking about predominant trends, though, it’s always considering the exceptions. Those have always existed in this field, and have been tremendously important when it comes to shaping the language of OP/ED animation. You can look as far back as the 60s to find notable examples—the one and only Isao Takahata directed and storyboarded the opening for Hustle Punch in 1965, despite not contributing to the direction of the show otherwise. The term opening specialist has been used among viewers to refer to a phenomenon that might not have been very common, but still happened enough times to catch attention; that is, directors who would be called specifically because of their renown when it comes to this type of sequence, even if they weren’t at all related to that project.

The aforementioned Masashi Ishihama is the quintessential example, having directed dozens of them since the late 90s yet only led a handful of projects overall. And more than the sheer number, there’s the influence, the way that artists like him have become the ideal that others strive for. In a season he didn’t participate in, we’ve still had to shout him out by name because his influence on the gorgeous opening for Shoushimin S2 was simply that strong in spots. Although you might be inclined to chalk that up to the fact that it was directed by a comrade of his, making it more of a direct influence than an industry-wide one, Ishihama-like traits have been appearing all over anime for years. It’s no secret that creators constantly have his work in mind when they’re entrusted with an opening or ending sequence. A similar effect is starting to happen with Shingo Yamashita, who shares a fondness for quick fade-ins and has been so popular as to alter the cadence of high-profile anime openings altogether.

Although it’s hard to pinpoint anime’s first opening specialist—again, this isn’t an official title—it’s impossible to understand the history of this concept without considering Koji Nanke. While his career has been more adjacent to commercial animation than part of it, Nanke’s occasional appearances in anime and his recurring work in NHK’s iconic Minna no Uta program (chronicled in this excellent article over at On the Ones) have made him a tremendously influential figure. The earliest stages of his career were actually within commercial animation, where he gained experience across various animation roles before calling it quits and taking a more independent path.

When he began creating openings and endings from the early 80s onwards, Nanke proved that level of versatility and then some. The sheer diversity of materials and techniques he was willing to tackle, even in this commercial environment he wasn’t fully submerged into, could wow the likes of Mamoru Oshii; crayon, oil paint, pencil, paper cutouts, and ingenious analog photography tricks all joyfully dancing to the same tune. And that is precisely what Nanke shines the brightest at: the rhythmic feeling of his sequences. Despite not going all the way into literally animating the song like he would do in his Minna no Uta contributions, Nanke’s sequences are so satisfyingly tuned to the songs that they’ll never feel complete if you isolate the visuals. That musicality in the context of anime wasn’t necessarily an invention of his—the iconic 1968 opening for Gegege no Kitaro proves that—but Nanke’s output was so memorable as to reformulate the concept of what a good OP/ED is to generations upon generations of artists. And that does very much include the ones we’ve been talking about today, as Megumi Ishitani is a huge fan of his and considers his work a major influence.

In a field where the norm is a more factual presentation of the contents and characters of the series, Nanke represents a more music video-like distillation of dynamics and vibes. Through sheer volume and cultural impact, those are best embodied through his contributions to Rumiko Takahashi’s golden trio of adaptations. Across Urusei Yatsura, Maison Ikkoku, and Ranma ½, Nanke was in charge of two dozen openings and endings, nearly always bookending the whole series by animating the first and last ones. It’s quite telling that even as those titles receive remakes promising faithfulness to the source material, it’s often specifically Nanke’s imagery that their intro and outros call back to.

Ever since his earliest contributions to Urusei Yatsura, you can feel that rhythm and the fun poses that accompany it, his design sensibilities with the big heads featuring lots of real estate to emote, and the equally influential usage of simple shapes in ways modern VFX still tries to emulate. The more he broadened his horizons and got used to sublimating the ideas of one work into an opening or ending, the more interesting the results became. By the time of Ranma, you have rotating cubes and PiP used to contrast the various sides of the protagonist, or a mayhem of cutouts and paint to literalize the relationship threads that make his life so chaotic. Even though Nanke’s work didn’t spawn an army of clones, as that would require his unique sensibilities and an almost unmatched, broad mastery of the arts, it’s no surprise that he’s one of those specialists who have left a tangible legacy in the visual vocabulary of openings and endings.

Now, for as iconic as the work of brilliant outsiders like Nanke has been, for as much as they have codified styles, you can’t understand the history of these sequences without looking at the group of people behind most of them—which also means, behind most of anime’s all-time best OP/ED. Although fans have coined that opening specialist term to refer to freelance talent that joins a project just for those specific tasks, often comprising most of their overall output, it should not be conflated with the idea of creators who excel at directing openings, as that is a much broader group. Any list of the best openings and endings of all time will be inevitably full of examples led by their series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario., just as most all-timer project leaders are also exceptional at handling these sequences; again, not a coincidence that Naoko Yamada was on this list, even if it was as a guest for once.

Examples like hers also illuminate another important detail: when we examine this from the angle of entire careers as opposed to whether one job was within or outside the core team, the line between specialist outsiders and series directors who have mastered this field becomes blurrier. A perhaps even clearer example is one of the names that people immediately think about when the idea of opening specialist is mentioned. There’s no denying that Yasuomi Umetsu is one of the greatest directors in this field, nor that he keeps getting requests to prove that in productions that he’s otherwise not involved with—but does that cleanly fit that mold of the specialist who is all about these sequences? After all, and even though one of Umetsu’s claims to fame was (nearly) solo key animating Z Gundam’s OP/ED despite not being part of that team otherwise, it’s not until the mid 00s but especially 10s onwards that he began to be entrusted with the direction of those sequences as an outsider. Which is to say, after he had established himself as a series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario., honing his craft on his own projects.

Even in instances where he acts as an outsider, Umetsu is notorious for obsessively reading the source material that he’s been entrusted with. Stylistically, he will take over any title that lands on his lap; he has extremely characteristic artwork that will obscure the regular designs as much as he’s allowed to, and his favorite compositions (which you can get a more extensive taste of in Sarca’s recent writeup) stand out just as much. When it comes to the texture and vibes, though, he’ll focus on capturing the soul of the work as a whole—which is why his intro for Soremachi is one of the best of all time. Fundamentally, Umetsu understands that a good opening or ending should feel like it can only exist within the context of the series it’s attached to. And conversely, that no matter how cool one sequence looks, if you can redraw faces and use it for something else then it was never a good embodiment of any particular work. This is a pitfall that no individual creator is immune to, but creators who lead entire projects are more mindful of it.

Thanks to that, it’s not just those all-time greats who have historically come up with excellent OP/ED, but also a multitude of solid series directors. Those in a position that makes them intimately familiar with the unique qualities of a series are poised for success, as long as they also have the ability to process those ideas into attractive visuals. If we consider the trends in who directs these sequences that we addressed earlier, then, one of the risks becomes rather clear—we’re detaching the job from those generally best prepared to understand its needs. By default, an outsider will have an uphill climb to become as aware of the charm of an entire work as the person leading it.

That said, it’s also important to remember that even in the case of outsiders, those sequences still go through the series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. for approval. To begin with, the vague idea behind them will often come from that project leader; as a fun counterexample, remember that earlier we also talked about the Cinderella Gray ending, where the artist almost solely responsible for it discarded the idea pitched by the series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario.. Production dynamics aren’t simple!

Now that we have a better understanding of who comes up with anime’s openings and endings, how that is drastically changing, and the associated risks, we only have to ask ourselves… why? I believe that this is best summarized as pressure and expectations. If you draw a link between the overworked state of the industry and the fact that those very busy series directors are delegating more and more tasks, you’re obviously onto something—but I would argue that also ends up being a matter of expectations.

Directing a whole show has never been a breeze, but it’s specifically in the current context that social media and amplified online reactions have inflated viewers’ expectations. They’re constantly bombarded with clips of the best (or at least the loudest and flashiest) animation, so they want nothing else when it’s time for their next favorite work to be animated. Mind you, that applies to producers as well, as they will often fail to understand the capabilities of a team and demand just as much as the most unreasonable fans. And so openings, which are known to be a step above the shows themselves, are asked (implicitly or explicitly) to have a tremendous level of quality that series directors and even core teams altogether don’t have time for. After all, they’re already struggling to live up to those heavy expectations when it comes to the episodes themselves! That’s how we arrive at the current situation: delegations, subcontracting, reliance on complete outsiders.

This type of invisible weight is, on a broader level, a key aspect if you want to understand why workers feel so tense right now. Looking merely at salaries would, if anything, paint a better picture than previously. While overwork and schedules continue to be terrible, those are sadly a bit of a constant. But when you consider that each individual person feels that pressure to live up to inflated standards, even in environments where that’s clearly not in the cards, you understand why the atmosphere has become so asphyxiating. If we look at OP/ED specifically, it’s not a coincidence that the overall Spring 2025 data shows a still much higher rate of in-house/core team/series director sequences than the dreadful one among the examples we cherry-picked at the beginning of this piece. Given that the latter belong to high-profile titles that are much more heavily scrutinized, this effect and its consequences are much more apparent.

As we wrap up, it’s interesting to consider the ways that creators have been trying to live up to those expectations. If you look at the biggest openings in recent times, it’s clear that many have attempted to do so head-on, with bombastic, action-heavy sequences under the direction or at least influence of massively popular icons like the aforementioned Yama. These can very well result in impressive sequences, though it’s an approach prone to that replaceability; great showcases of animation that could exist anywhere but also belong nowhere. There’s often a fine line between success and that nagging feeling, so I’m personally often somewhat torn about them—despite appreciating what they can bring to the table on a technical level.

Another common solution has been to appeal to trendiness among the youth, often through the conception of opening and ending that are essentially music videos. If you add up that desire to feature eye-catching sequences, the fact that people within the industry are so busy, and the awareness that younger audiences enjoy music videos, it inevitably leads to the interesting surge of independent, alternative MV creators being in charge of OP/ED that we’re seeing right now. This obviously increases that risk of ending with sequences that don’t have a meaningful link with their work, though it’s also worth noting that plenty of subculture folks are willing to engage with the shows they’re related to—even the most experimental artists. In this very same article, we’ve highlighted the figure of Ayaka Nakata as an independent artist who delves into the distinct motifs of each series. And from an even more radical standpoint when it comes to the techniques deployed, the team led by Saho Nanjo is another recent favorite; so idiosyncratic in their stylistic choices, yet always very readable when it comes to points related to narrative and characters.

When taking a step back, sequences like that start feeling a bit familiar. We started this piece by talking about Ishiguro’s opening for Shoushimin and Ishitani’s intro for Witch Watch, as two music video-like entries that embraced (or emulated) the feeling of the diverse materials that can be made into animation. As we also noted earlier, the latter’s reputable series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. explained that he refused to take on the job himself because modern audiences might find his approach to be antiquated, again showing the type of pressure that creators feel. It was his desire to feature a more hip sequence that made them pursue a more MV-ish opening, which eventually turned into Ishitani’s marvelous work. And where have we heard of creators coming up with OP/ED that feel like a music video, while embracing a diversity of materials? For starters, back in the 80s already, with artists we’ve discussed at length like Nanke. As we try to contextualize the history of any type of art, it’s always interesting to observe how a new set of circumstances can sometimes lead us to similar currents than we experienced in the past.

If you were expecting a clean conclusion out of this, I’m afraid to say that art doesn’t tend to conduce to those. A blind, almost consumerist appreciation of all the fancy openings and endings we get right now will never sit right for anyone who is aware of the context behind them. Similarly, even an awareness of the heavy pressure (and outright cynicism when it comes from producers) behind them shouldn’t taint them completely; we also know that it’s metrics of their virality that brings so many more official accounts to share production materials and even the names behind them nowadays, but that’s not going to make us believe that it’s a negative development. It’s true that we all should be more appreciative of more lowkey, deliberate sequences conceived in-house, but there’s also excellence born out of the new blood coming in from the outside. Appreciating art is complicated, and OP/ED are no exception.

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