Spring 2025 sta per finire e con esso, molte incredibili sequenze di apertura e fine. È tempo di approfondire quelle opere e i loro creatori, ma ancora più importante, come lo stato del settore e le aspettative commerciali/degli spettatori siano cambiati che concepiscono l’op/ed.
shoushimin s2: un finale evocativo sorprendentemente evocativo ponete href=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tvusi5pSzo0″> Link di apertura ] [ ending link ]
se ci sia una cosa di shoushiMin Tao Tajima . Come abbiamo discusso in precedenza, il modo di Tajima di girare filmati dal vivo e poi modificare l’illuminazione riesce a disegnare vibrazioni sempre leggermente soprannaturali da paesaggi quotidiani, che i creatori di anime esperti hanno sfruttato con grande efficacia. Più notoriamente, ha contribuito regolarmente alle opere moderne di Kunihiko Ikuhara in Studio Lapintrack; Forse l’abbinamento più ovviamente sinergico che potresti immaginare, poiché Ikuni era già la figura numero uno di realismo magico nell’anime. Dato che il CEO dello studio— sono insolite le relazioni con le relazioni con le relazioni insolite con le relazioni con le relazioni insolite con le relazioni con le relazioni insolite con le relazioni multitante. scusa.
Forse non è una connessione diretta come i ponti tematici tra Ikuni e Tajima, ma Shoushimin fornisce davvero una buona scusa. Honobu Yonezawa prospera scrivendo un mistero radicato e che si applica anche a questa serie, ma l’intero punto cruciale della sua storia sta osservando due individui naturalmente eccentrici attraversano questi banali scenari di risoluzione dei problemi mentre provano (e fallendo) di diventare ordinari. Attraverso i suoi paesaggi per lo più comuni che si sentono sempre così leggermente fuori una volta filtrati e sovrapposti con personaggi 2D, Tajima riassume l’atmosfera della serie in un finale, ho considerato uno dei migliori del 2024. Shoushimin che tornava per la sua seconda parte quest’anno, sicuramente che avremmo ottenuto una nuova sequenza di Tajima, quindi mi aspettavo che fosse uno dei suoi punti di vista. src=”https://blog.sakugabooru.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/average-anime-studio.jpg”altezza=”477″>
Mente per il pericolo. Forse i cambiamenti nella canzone non funzionano bene nelle immagini che tentano di abbinarli, ma è comunque un grande finale. Non è anche nemmeno vicino alla straordinaria sorpresa di un’apertura guidata da Kyouhei Ishiguro . La sua carriera è stata un po’strana dal rilascio di parole che bolle come la soda pop -che è stata accantonato per oltre un anno dopo che la produzione ha terminato a causa della pandemia e un anime luminoso che è meglio dimenticato. Forse per questo, gli spettatori in generale non sono a conoscenza del loro talento come una volta.
Negli ultimi anni, Ishiguro si è concentrata principalmente su aperture e finali come collaboratore ospite. Nonostante questo impasse nella sua carriera, i fan del regista sono probabilmente consapevoli che quelle sequenze sono state spesso costruito attorno a idee interessanti . Non erano il più lampeggiante, quindi non avrebbe potuto distinguersi come era solito pochi anni fa, ma il suo tocco speciale non era affatto svanito. In effetti, apparentemente era migliorato al punto da poter cadere con disinvoltura forse la cosa più grande che abbia mai creato, e certamente una delle aperture più impressionanti nell’anime televisivo moderno.
per quanto io sia lo shock di assistere a qualcosa di così bello che sembra sminuire un ricorrente già impressionante, vale la pena notare che stilistica, non tutto in questa sorpresa è una sorpresa. Per cominciare, C’è un’influenza palpabile di Masashi Ishihama; Più chiaramente nell’uso di silhouette colorate, ma familiari al tipo di grafica di movimento che ha definito l’estetica di aperture come yama no susume “s . Ishihama è stato uno dei più grandi contributori agli spettacoli di Ishiguro, non solo quando si tratta di aperture ma anche episodi eccellenti. Data quella relazione, un grado di influenza alla fine allevando la testa sembrava un dato di fatto. A differenza di alcuni protetti ishihama che sono andati fino in fondo per i suoi inconfondibili intros-come
In effetti, uno dei maggiori punti di forza di questa apertura shoushimin è quanto si senta diversi. silhouettes colorate , pittura morphing , personaggi 2d interagendo con la realtà e Asset di animazione , tutti i tipi di 3d work href=”https://i.imgur.com/azaf24w.jpg”> lo sguardo predefinito dello spettacolo
Una sequenza di apertura può riuscire a diversi gradi riassumendo efficacemente la sua storia e la sua dinamica del personaggio, distillando i temi del lavoro o allontanando i suoi dettagli, ma trovando un modo per arrivare a un’atmosfera simile; Inoltre, puoi essere come Ishiguro e operare su tutti quei livelli. Abbiamo messo in evidenza la sua individualità e il modo in cui ciò riassume in qualche modo le idee di base e la sensazione della serie, ma usa anche il suo elevato numero di tagli per fare cenni specifici alla storia e alle relazioni in gioco. Questa seconda stagione inizia con il duo principale che ha raggiunto la conclusione che stare insieme solo alimenta le tendenze stravaganti che non permetteranno loro di essere normali, quindi si separano… in un atto chiaramente senza speranza, poiché è gradualmente più chiaro che condividono un piano della realtà solo tra loro. L’apertura lo allude costantemente attraverso ritagli e spazio negativo: non esistono letteralmente nel mondo reale-oltre a sovrapposti materiali Insieme.
Sebbene mai sottile, la profondità dei riferimenti agli eventi di questa stagione diventa evidente solo una volta che lo spettatore ha piena conoscenza di ciò che sta accadendo. the innumerevoli di Fire erano facili da individuare come auto sono; Non devi essere il più brillante per stabilire il legame tra quelli e gli archi che vengono costruiti attorno a incendio doloso e un incidente stradale. Potrebbe essere più soddisfacente, tuttavia, rendersi conto del perché Un certo carattere luminoso viene mostrato a lanciare ombre -e perché ce ne sono specificamente tre per quella materia. Un semplice scatto , a posteriori, può riassumere due persone che perseguono in modo proattivo gli altri, ma facendo errori a cui i colori stessi alludono. Un individuo era semplicemente freddo, blu, mentre la persona i cui confini uno sciocco invaso irrispettosamente è un tale diavolo rosso che poteva fare causa a Manchester United. Le sue apparizioni all’oscuro hanno un luminoso, giovanile naivety non trovi nessun altro href=”https://i.imgur.com/smgnehf.jpg”> sembra terrificante perché… beh, è Osanai, nulla da spiegare qui. Anche quel colpo fa un cenno a un dettaglio chiave a un dettaglio chiave, però! So does this one where you can see Yorushika‘s logo in her eye, as expected from a band so blessed that they got Questa canzone è stata animata in due cortometraggi completamente diversi e fantastici .
Alla fine, questa è un’apertura che sembra che potrebbe esistere solo all’interno di Shoushimin, quindi perché è anche una combinazione di stili che non hai mai visto prima. Non tutti gli spettacoli sono abbastanza ricchi da consentire a un regista di scavare così con successo, ma se Ishiguro è pronto per la sfida, mi piacerebbe vederlo continuare a contribuire con sequenze come questa per altri titoli. O chi lo sa, forse conduce uno interessante di nuovo!
L’apertura di Witch Watch, il prossimo passo iterativo nella brillante carriera di Megumi Ishitani?
[ Apertura di apertura One Piece fosse particolarmente sbagliato; Questo è il franchise in cui ha concentrato i suoi sforzi negli ultimi anni, portando a risultati così abbaglianti che abbiamo dovuto scriverne più e più volte su questo sito. Mentre la tela di Oda è stata una cosa che le offriva la possibilità di crescita e raffinatezza, non era ciò che la rendeva un brillante creatore: non era il suo episodio climatico in Dragon Ball Super , l’evento che ha fatto crescere la sua popolarità per gli ordini di magnitudo.
8 anni fa, quando era solo un’assistente in quella serie, abbiamo già introdotto il mondo per la magnitudo. Vedremo più avanti in questo pezzo) perché il suo potenziale era semplicemente così ovvio. Non capita tutti i giorni che incontri un artista sia con la capacità tecnica di brillare in questo grado e del magnetismo per attirare team eccezionali ovunque vadano, ma questo è proprio così per Ishitani. Non dovresti interpretare questo sviluppo come la sua rottura della sua relazione con un unico pezzo, ma è un momento per capire che era brillante prima di attraversare i percorsi con Luffy e continuerà ad essere uniforme come la loro carriera diverge. Questo potrebbe sembrare scandaloso se la tua visione dell’anime comprende solo per il tuo programma preferito, ma non c’è mai stata una sequenza temporale in cui Kunihiko Ikuhara ha diretto Sailor Moon per la vita, dove Miyazaki si è trasformato in un semplice membro della rotazione in franchising. Considera Witch Watch che aprirà un gusto speciale e preliminare di ciò che sta inevitabilmente arriva. Di recente abbiamo sperimentato uno degli esempi più estremi di quello con la partenza di Naoko Yamada dall’animazione di Kyoto, dopo un lungo mandato nello studio più strettamente sigillato in anime. Le persone che avevano ammirato il suo lavoro per secoli ma non potevano mai lavorare con lei a causa delle politiche interne dello studio si precipitavano a lavorare con il loro idolo improvvisamente disponibile e la stessa cosa è successa dalla sua parte. Mentre Ishitani e Toei non sono bloccati allo stesso modo, i contratti con società specifiche e relazioni preesistenti governano ancora gran parte di ciò che è realisticamente possibile che accada nel settore. Spostandosi temporaneamente in uno studio diverso e lavorando sotto produttori con contatti diversi, incontri che erano altamente improbabili prima (nonostante le persone che speravano per loro) sono diventate improvvisamente una possibilità. E in molti casi, una realtà.
Un’istanza che si distingue immediatamente è il direttore dell’animazione Masayuki Nonaka, con cui Ishitani era Molto a conoscenza di tetsuya takeuchi ; Forse non sorprende che il contributo di Takeuchi all’apertura ha permesso a un certo produttore di confermare che Nonaka è un fan del suo . Tutti i loro stili sono abbastanza distinti da non mescolare, eppure quei fili tra loro rendono più facile capire perché Ishitani è stato in grado di funzionare così bene con una squadra efficacemente nuova. Ishitani herself is a big fan of Witch Watch’s author Kenta Shinohara—and so is her little sister, for that matter—so she was predisposed to accept the job, but such an offer wouldn’t have happened if it Non erano per le relazioni precedenti. Ora un produttore di animazione allo Studio Bibury, Hidehisa Taniguchi ha avuto un breve periodo di Mamoru Hosoda Studio Chizu; All’epoca, fungendo brevemente come assistente assistente alla produzione (制作進行, Seisaku Shinkou): effettivamente il ruolo di”produttore”di classificazione più basso, eppure un ingranaggio essenziale nel sistema. Controllano e portano in giro i materiali e contattano le dozzine su decine di artisti necessari per finire un episodio. Di solito gestisce più episodi degli spettacoli con cui sono coinvolti. su progetti come Belle . That allowed him to meet Takashi Nakame, a mastermind in Japan’s theatrical animation scene who has only started receiving broader attention by attracting the masters of the craft who rarely touch TV anime to projects like Frieren.
Taniguchi didn’t hesitate to reach out to his acquaintance, while also remaining actively involved in the production of the opening despite being burdened with Responsabilità per lo spettacolo nel suo insieme. Ha già fluttuato l’idea di nominare Ishitani con esso, il che ha reso Nakame ancora più probabilità di accettare la richiesta come Ciò ha anche coinciso con il desiderio del direttore delle directorie della serie: (監督, Kantoku): la persona responsabile dell’intera produzione, sia come decisore creativo che come supervisore finale. Hanno superato il resto dello staff e alla fine hanno l’ultima parola. Tuttavia esistono serie con diversi livelli di registi: direttore direttore, vicedirettore, regista dell’episodio della serie, tutti i tipi di ruoli non standard. La gerarchia in quei casi è un caso per caso. Hiroshi Ikehata ; In un’intervista per il numero di Animedia del giugno 2025, spiega che ha trasmesso da solo da solo che gli avrebbe dato una sensazione un po’antiquata, quando preferirebbe molto avere uno stile più fresco che potrebbe raddoppiare come video musicale. Data l’affinità di Ishitani per quell’approccio, così come il desiderio dei produttori di lavorare con lei, hanno esteso un’offerta che la faceva passare temporaneamente a Bibury per la realizzazione di questa apertura.
Quando le persone parlano della capacità di Nakame di connettere i registi con il tipo di talento teatrale non vedi in televisione tutto ciò che spesso, si riferiscono agli animatori. Quella percezione era tanto meritata a Frieren quanto in questa apertura; Nonostante la breve lunghezza, è riuscito a arruolare artisti del calibro di Hiroyuki Aoyama, Ayako Hata, Hirooma Yamakawa, Ryosuke Tsuchiya e molti animatori televisivi di alto profilo. Detto questo, concentrandosi su ciò che ignora anche il modo in cui ha anche la capacità di raggiungere gli specialisti dei colori con pedigree altrettanto prestigiosi per aiutare Ishitani a catturare la sua visione altamente specifica.
L’esempio più famoso di quella gravità più ampia per la gravità della serie. Disegnano numerose opere d’arte che una volta approvate dal direttore della serie fungono da riferimento per gli sfondi durante la serie. Il coordinamento all’interno del dipartimento artistico è un must: l’ambientazione e i designer di colori devono lavorare insieme per creare un mondo coerente. Hiroshi Oono , che ha contribuito a dare a questa sequenza una sensazione completamente distinta rispetto allo spettacolo. Sebbene raramente faccia l’apparizione in TV, è stato limitato a progetti più esclusivi nelle fasi successive della sua carriera. Non tutti i produttori avrebbero la capacità di contattarlo per un’apertura, arruolarlo come direttore del direttore artistico (美術監督 美術監督, Bijutsu Kantoku): la persona responsabile dell’arte di fondo per la serie. Disegnano numerose opere d’arte che una volta approvate dal direttore della serie fungono da riferimento per gli sfondi durante la serie. Il coordinamento all’interno del dipartimento artistico è un must: l’ambientazione e i designer di colori devono lavorare insieme per creare un mondo coerente. e pittore per molti dei suoi sfondi, e persino Visita la sua casa per accontentarsi di uno stile che corrisponde alla visione del regista . Ishitani stessa ricorda con l’emozione Ciò che sono riusciti a raggiungere: lavorare a fianco del direttore artistico (美術監督, Bijutsu Kantoku): la persona di base per le serie. Disegnano numerose opere d’arte che una volta approvate dal direttore della serie fungono da riferimento per gli sfondi durante la serie. Il coordinamento all’interno del dipartimento artistico è un must: l’ambientazione e i designer di colori devono lavorare insieme per creare un mondo coerente. del servizio di consegna di Kiki per una serie moderna su una giovane strega, come un passaggio molto magico della torcia. Forse una bacchetta nel loro caso.
Naoko Yamada che dirige una nuova apertura e fine è un grosso problema che la notizia precede lo spettacolo che sono allegati a
[ href=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUTGoBChCIY”>Ending link]
A new adaptation of Anne of Green Gables due Spring 2025, this time by the name of Anne Shirley, was announced back in November 2024. Leaving leaks aside, that type of announcement is how everyone would normally find out about L’esistenza di un titolo imminente. Questo, ovviamente, non è il caso di questo spettacolo. Quasi due mesi prima di quell’annuncio, la serie di documentari Jounetsu Tairiku ha dedicato un episodio al brillante Naoko Yamada , che aveva recentemente diretto il suo ultimo film The Colours. Mentre il programma si è concluso, hanno mostrato a Yamada che lavorava alla sequenza di apertura e finale per un’opera senza nome… che è successo a > Featch a personaggio con un design così iconico che ivieers
Come ha fatto a ottenere quel concerto, però? I romantici tra il pubblico hanno notato rapidamente che la sua carriera è stata in conversazione con quella del defunto leggenda Isao Takahata . Il loro interesse condiviso per le persone li ha portati a esplorare argomenti simili, sebbene con angoli di loro che occasionalmente si incrociano. Soprattutto nella sua attuale era freelance, a Yamada è stato permesso di rivisitare opere specifiche su cui Takahata aveva le mani in passato; Sebbene non fosse mai stato realizzato, una volta aveva programmato di dirigere un anime di Heike come lei alla fine, e ora le era permesso di condividere la sua interpretazione di un personaggio che aveva già esplorato nella relazione tra i CHIEDI, se non si tratta di più i CHIUSI, che non si trattava di un motivo per cui, non è un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un percorso più tassante, che non è un percorso in più, che non è un percorso in più, non è un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui è stato un motivo per cui non è un motivo. collaborazione. In un’intervista per il numero di Animage di luglio 2025, Yamada ha confermato ciò che le persone che avevano prestato attenzione alla sua recente carriera erano già state in grado di indovinare. Vale a dire che si trattava di un invito del direttore della serie di Anne Shirley: (監督 監督, Kantoku): la persona responsabile dell’intera produzione, sia come decisore creativo che come supervisore finale. Hanno superato il resto dello staff e alla fine hanno l’ultima parola. Tuttavia esistono serie con diversi livelli di registi: direttore direttore, vicedirettore, regista dell’episodio della serie, tutti i tipi di ruoli non standard. La gerarchia in quei casi è un caso per caso. Hiroshi Kawamata che l’ha resa così ansiosa di accettare il lavoro. È andata fino a definire una sua fan, felice di lavorare bene su tutto ciò che crea. È facile vedere che non stava bluffando per scopi PR; Nel 2022 e anche per lo studio di risposta, Yamada lo aveva affidato i disegni originali per il suo episodio nell’antologia modern love Tokyo . In quella stessa caratteristica di rivista, Kawamata le lascia una breve lettera in cui confronta l’artigianato di Yamada a adattare un bellissimo vestito che potrebbe far irrompere chiunque in un passo gioioso, proprio come fa il protagonista. Serve a dire che l’apprezzamento come artista è reciproco.
Quando si tratta del suo primo incarico, Yamada è rapidamente bloccato sui concetti chiave della serie. L’immaginazione meravigliosa e la curiosità sono idee come evocative di Anne Shirley come i suoi trecce e i capelli rossi, quindi perché sono al centro dell’inizio della sequenza. Yamada radica il primo su qualcosa che puoi apprezzare dall’inizio della storia: i tentativi del protagonista di elaborare la tragedia immaginando alternative stravaganti. Anche dopo aver riconosciuto che, tuttavia, ha fatto la scelta di concentrarsi sulla gioia intrinseca nell’approccio di Anne al mondo. i suoi gesti e l’uso della fioreografia per illustrare come migliora la sua realtà con la sua immaginazione sono distintamente Yamada-Par-in-inesque, ma direi che l’aspetto più importante risiede nel sentenza fluttuante dei sogni dell’animazione. Sebbene quell’approccio non è nuovo a Yamada né
Mentre l’apertura raggiunge la sua seconda metà, Yamada si sposta per enfatizzare un paio di idee chiave nel mondo di Anne of Green Gables. Il primo è il passaggio del tempo stesso, che è graduale e significativo, almeno quando non si precipita attraverso la storia come fa Anne Shirley-al punto in cui semplici cambiamenti in altezza e acconciature possono spostarti in lacrime. Con la stessa capricciosità di prima, i suoi storyboard usano Un orologio rotante per condurci alle istantanee di quella bella caratteristica, così come la crescita che ci è voluta per arrivare lì. E più in generale, Yamada separa questo segmento finale costruendo ricordi, in contrasto con la fantasia intrinseca dell’immaginazione che definisce l’inizio. Altrettanto importante come la prospettiva luminosa di Anne è il fatto che le permette di condurre una vita appagante, quindi gli storyboard sono anche pensati per catturare tutti gli eventi che tornerà a guardare indietro con affetto. Certo, anche quelli sono trasmessi con un senso di musicalità che Anne stessa non può sfuggire.
Il passaggio al finale comporta un cambiamento radicale di stile, ma ciò non rende il risultato meno riconoscibile. L’approccio è piuttosto simile all’ED per ping pong the animation , completamente animato dallo stesso Eunyoung Choi con il quale Yamada collabora al giorno d’oggi. Questa volta, l’animazione dell’animazione della chiave solista (原画, Genga): questi artisti disegnano i momenti fondamentali all’interno dell’animazione, definendo sostanzialmente il movimento senza completare effettivamente il taglio. L’industria anime è nota per aver permesso a questi singoli artisti di esprimere il proprio stile. Lo sforzo arriva per mano del suo recente partner nel crimine Takashi Kojima, che ha anche agito come supervisore per l’apertura; Qualcosa che potresti esserti dedotto realizzando che La protagonista si sente come se si sia persa sulla strada per i colori di Kojima . Un dettaglio chiave nel processo che Le politiche di creazione anti-artisti di NHK non ti avrebbero permesso di sapere era che lo Yamada stessa ha dipinto l’intera sequenza, per lo più usando acquerelli familiari . Se ti stai chiedendo quanto sia sinestetica la visione del regista, descrive la canzone come quella che proietta uno sguardo caldo e il suo approccio risultante come uno che intendeva mantenere la stessa tonalità e la stessa temperatura-di nuovo, non c’è da stupirsi perché il suo film precedente riguardasse una ragazza che può percepire le persone come colori.
per capire questa sequenza, si desidera che tu abbia guardato nella direzione di quello che il regista percee. Se l’apertura ha raccolto la maggior parte delle idee che definiscono Anne come una persona, il finale si concentra sul pezzo chiave finale della serie: The Green Gables. La sequenza inizia con una delicata passeggiata attraverso l’isola del Principe Edoardo; Vistas come quello che vedresti nella carrozza che ha portato Anne nella sua nuova casa, cosparsa dei dettagli che hanno scatenato la sua immaginazione. Tuttavia, non si tratta necessariamente di lei. Semmai, si tratta della vita intorno ad Anne, quindi il rifiuto di Yamada di rappresentare il volto del protagonista: un tentativo di enfatizzare le sue azioni fisiche in quanto potremmo assistere alle scarpe dei suoi genitori adottivi. In questo senso, il taglio finale è uno splendido incapsulamento di intenti. Vediamo Anne correre da dietro, un’immagine che Mathew e Marilla testimoniano innumerevoli volte dal momento in cui arriva. E anche, che ricorda loro la sua crescita, poiché quella forma diventa gradualmente più alta all’interno dello spettacolo. Ma invece, il finale riassume ciò che rappresenta per loro: la luce calda in cui si trasforma i suoi distinti capelli rossi. Questa è la vera essenza di Anne Shirley e il miglior modo possibile per terminare ogni episodio.
Un’apertura che dimostra che la storia d’amore tra Kusuriya e la Cina non è ancora finita
[a href=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hrrxvh4bkhe>> di apertura Kusuriya negli ultimi mesi; Problemi che alla fine non possono impedire che sia un momento piacevole, ma che certamente impediscono il livello di smalto che ha caratterizzato la prima serie. Anche se questo sequel non fosse stato boicottato dal programma imposto, tuttavia, realisticamente non avrebbe potuto gareggiare con i massimi ultraterreni dell’episodio n. 04. Gli artisti guidati da Cina erano effettivamente ospiti che inseriscono un splendido cortometraggio all’interno della sua trasmissione, qualcosa che non avrebbero potuto fare per questo lotto di episodi perché erano stati impegnati… nello stesso studio, producendo un po’sublime, che non è molto diverso, che non si aspettava che si preveda di consumare la stagione. Che è affetto da una condizione comune: pensare che Maomao sia un eccellente 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
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
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
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
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
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. Beautiful work. 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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