Sash's Anime

Jujutsu Kaisen is an anime that balances brutal action and supernatural curses with a surprisingly thoughtful look at emotional struggle, responsibility, and the systems that fail people. While it’s wrapped in a flashy shonen package, the series reflects both issues within Japanese society and concerns that resonate across the world.

In Japan, where social harmony is highly valued, Jujutsu Kaisen challenges the norm by directly confronting emotional repression. The idea that curses are born from negative emotions—grief, fear, rage—mirrors how unchecked pain can spiral into something harmful, not just to the person suffering, but to those around them. It’s a subtle critique of how modern society, including Japanese work and school culture, often pressures individuals to suppress their true feelings.

Globally, the show hits on similar issues. The theme of carrying invisible burdens—whether trauma, anxiety, or guilt—is universal. Characters like Yuji Itadori struggle with the moral weight of their actions and the pain of losing others, while Megumi and Nobara represent people trying to hold it together in a world that doesn’t give them room to fall apart. These emotional battles feel just as real as the physical ones.

What really struck me was how Jujutsu Kaisen speaks to the feeling of being caught in something bigger than yourself. Whether it’s societal expectations or broken systems, that sense of powerlessness is something I’ve felt in my own life. But the anime also shows that standing up—even when it hurts—is still worth it. That connection between shared pain and chosen responsibility makes the characters feel human.

Violet Evergarden: Recollections

This is a very interesting story which, I believe, is about relearning to live. About understanding how to move forward when the context that grounded you is gone.

Violet does not know how to live outside the context of the army or without the major.

Spencer Marlborough does not how to live after his parents' deaths.

The writer does not know how to live a life without his daughter.

Ann does not know how to live when she is facing her mother's imminent death.

It is, also, of course, about learning oneself, recognizing one's own emotions and that of others, which is what Violet is more immediately trying to learn from moment to moment. I think the way this movie frames stories, narratives, real and fictitious, as a means to reflect inward is... very accurate to my own life experience. Once, I was overtaken with a deep sadness that I could not externalize, and reading a tragedy that allowed me to cry. Sometimes, trapped in our own experience, we cannot work through our emotions, even our thoughts, and seeing them reflected back at us in another one's experience is a gift.

And in the context of the movie, of course, war underlines everything. The effects of war has on communities, on people, and on people's connections to one another. War is a context stripping machine. a connection snapper, a massive life destructing force, and it starts and ends by human choice. Exploring the effects it has on people is always a relevant practice to encourage globally, so that we might avoid it to the best of our ability. And so that we may have some idea of how to live, when we fail.

And so, of course, this movie ends with... is it recollections? Is it remembrance? The idea of a person being connected to us beyond death. The power of words and memories and the knowledge of love.

"A loved one will always watch over you."

The first things that stood out to me was how clearly it played into, and perhaps even helped define, the concept of the cyberpunk dystopia. I liked that it clearly referenced the power of distraction (the news anchor constantly being cut off by, uh, cartoons and action flicks, the consistently present usage of drugs and such) and violent supression (soldiers shooting to kill, student protests repressed, no apparent way tp defend right in the face of an opressive government.) I had often heard it was one or the other in media, but Akira shows us a reality that uses both, and on its own, it would be enough to make it terrifying. The militarization of the streets, state of disrepair of the school, the casual violence of adult figures in authority positions towards teenagers, the naming of protestors as terrorists, the human experimentation- there are many details that build upon each other to create a grim picture that feels like an eerily appropiate warning. This is the potential of governments everywhere if democracy is not safeguarded and the separation of powers is disregarded, which is something relevant globally.

Something that took me by surprise was Kaneda's casual misogyny. It felt overt enough and ridiculous enough that it seemed to form part of the greater web of commentary about the world, so I was not bothered, but I didn't expect it. I always assumed the protagonist of this movie would be a... unambiguous paragon. Why I assumed this escapes me completely.

The animation has a fascinating balance between the realistically expressive, exhaggerated effects, and stylization. Some of the imagery is truly haunting in a variety of ways. Tetsuko's torment is especially well made, making his fear and confusion easy to grasp. I adore that the power effects are not visualized- you see the power through the effects of it, and it is a glorious demostration of skill from the animators.

The first things that stood out to me was how clearly it played into, and perhaps even helped define, the concept of the cyberpunk dystopia. I liked that it clearly referenced the power of distraction (the news anchor constantly being cut off by, uh, cartoons and action flicks, the consistently present usage of drugs and such) and violent supression (soldiers shooting to kill, student protests repressed, no apparent way tp defend right in the face of an opressive government.) I had often heard it was one or the other in media, but Akira shows us a reality that uses both, and on its own, it would be enough to make it terrifying. The militarization of the streets, state of disrepair of the school, the casual violence of adult figures in authority positions towards teenagers, the naming of protestors as terrorists, the human experimentation- there are many details that build upon each other to create a grim picture that feels like an eerily appropiate warning. This is the potential of governments everywhere if democracy is not safeguarded and the separation of powers is disregarded, which is something relevant globally.

Something that took me by surprise was Kaneda's casual misogyny. It felt overt enough and ridiculous enough that it seemed to form part of the greater web of commentary about the world, so I was not bothered, but I didn't expect it. I always assumed the protagonist of this movie would be a... unambiguous paragon. Why I assumed this escapes me completely.

The animation has a fascinating balance between the realistically expressive, exhaggerated effects, and stylization. Some of the imagery is truly haunting in a variety of ways. Tetsuko's torment is especially well made, making his fear and confusion easy to grasp. I adore that the power effects are not visualized- you see the power through the effects of it, and it is a glorious demostration of skill from the animators.

Back in high school, my best friend was incredibly invested in the Hetalia series, and I never quite got around to watching it, because I suspected the hang-ups I would have with it. The problems with Hetalia as an anime, I think, are inherent and inseparable from its premise. Personalizing a nation is never going to not be reductive. It is never going to be able to perfectly avoid stereotypes. It is never going to avoid misrepresentations of truly somber events, and making itself open for the tactical polyvalence of discourses.

However, it is not the job of a series to teach us how to think- sometimes starting a conversation is much more important than the message one actually shares. That is how Sigmund Freud kicked off the field of psychology, and I think Hetalia can have a similar effect in a thousand tiny ways. Though, I think it actively presents itself in a way as not to be taken overly seriously. I do not think anyone watches Hetalia expecting to be seriously educated, though the fun facts thrown in are nice. It encourages curiosity and invites critique- it is a merit to the series. The ultimate result, I would bet, is people trying to become more aware of global sociopolitical issues.

Your Name is a movie that tugs at the heartstrings in a very unique way. The fact that our leads do not touch, cannot touch, for most of the movie. The fact that there's love there.

I think that the movie speaks of the intangibility of emotional connections, and their importance regardless. These two are literally separated by space and time. Their text messages are ephemeral. Even their memories of each other are not certain. None of that makes their love disappear. None of that makes them less aware of the loss. None of that stops them from reaching out.

I think that we live in a very materialistic era, a very functionalist era- where things have value because of what they do, less for what they are or what meaning we imbue into them. However, I personally think that functions must be given meaning. A meal in the morning is the sustenance of the day, and that is meaningless if you have no reason to live the day- though perhaps that is a bit of an extreme example, let's say, the meal is less valuable if one is not hungry. If one is not feeling something that imbues value upon the function of the object, the function is simply meaningless. If we forget to imbue value upon every aspect of our lives, we live in inertia, we leave in empty functions.

This movie challenges the materialistic functionalist view of the world. It asks us to give value to small towns and traditions and distance relationships. It asks us to imbue meaning, fight to preserve that meaning, and to recognize it when we encounter it. To ask for it's name.

I think it says: Name it, in your life, give it power. Welcome that power. That power is meaning.

At first glance, Xenoblade Chronicles 2 might seem like your classic anime-style JRPG — flashy battles, over-the-top character designs, and a sprawling fantasy world perched on the backs of giant Titans. But beneath all that spectacle lies a story with surprising emotional depth and themes that speak to both Japanese cultural anxieties and global challenges.

Set in a world where humanity survives atop living Titans above a sea of clouds, the game tackles the fragility of civilization in a world slowly dying. That theme — a waning world, clinging to dwindling resources — feels eerily familiar, especially for Japan. As a country with limited natural resources and an aging population, Japan has long faced concerns about sustainability and the future of its society. Xenoblade Chronicles 2 reflects these fears through its depiction of nations fighting for survival while ignoring the root causes of their decline.

On a broader scale, the game explores the dangers of blind nationalism, the cost of technological overreach, and what happens when people are treated as tools — all through its central concept of “Blades,” sentient beings summoned by humans to serve in battle. While the game’s world is fantastical, the moral dilemmas it poses about power, agency, and environmental decay feel painfully real.

At its heart, though, Xenoblade Chronicles 2 is also hopeful. It’s about connection, empathy, and the belief that individuals — even in the face of massive, systemic problems — can still choose compassion over destruction. That message resonates far beyond Japan. In an age of climate crisis, political division, and technological disruption, the game’s story reminds us of the power of human connection and the possibility of forging a better path forward, one choice at a time.

Whether you're in it for the epic battles or the deeper themes, Xenoblade Chronicles 2 delivers.

Rediscovering Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind: A Timeless Tale for Today

If you’ve never seen Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, stop what you’re doing and add it to your watchlist. This 1984 anime, directed by the legendary Hayao Miyazaki, might be decades old, but its message is more relevant than ever. On the surface, it’s a gorgeously animated fantasy with giant bugs, toxic jungles, and a strong, kind-hearted heroine. But look a little deeper, and you'll find it’s a powerful reflection on environmentalism, war, and humanity’s relationship with nature.

Set in a post-apocalyptic world poisoned by industrial pollution, the film feels eerily prophetic. Nausicaä, the heroine, isn’t your typical warrior — she’s a peacemaker, someone who listens to nature rather than trying to conquer it. Her empathy and courage stand in stark contrast to the destructive tendencies of the surrounding human factions. Sound familiar?

In Japan, where concerns over pollution and nuclear energy run deep (especially after events like the 2011 Fukushima disaster), Nausicaä touches on very real national anxieties. But it also speaks to global issues — climate change, biodiversity loss, and the dangers of unchecked technological advancement. Even the film’s conflict between militarized nations echoes ongoing global tensions.

What’s so striking is how hopeful the film remains. Miyazaki doesn’t just scold humanity — he believes in its potential for change. Nausicaä’s journey reminds us that compassion, understanding, and harmony with nature aren't weaknesses; they're our greatest strengths.

Whether you’re a longtime anime fan or new to Studio Ghibli, (Didn't know Studio Ghibli made this one!) Nausicaä is worth a watch — or a rewatch. It's a beautiful, moving reminder that the future isn’t set in stone. We can learn. We can heal. And like Nausicaä, we can choose a better path forward.

You made a good point about her being a different sort of hero—one who is more concerned with listening, understanding, and healing than with using physical force. That is really refreshing, especially given the state of the media today. Miyazaki seems to have been well ahead of his time.

If you’ve ever watched The End of Evangelion, you know that it’s not just another anime movie—it’s an emotional rollercoaster that leaves you questioning everything about the world and yourself. The 1997 film, directed by Hideaki Anno, is the mind-bending conclusion to the iconic Neon Genesis Evangelion series. But beyond the mechs, angels, and apocalyptic imagery, it’s a deep reflection on personal isolation, mental health, and existential crises. These themes aren’t just relevant to Japan—they resonate with anyone grappling with the pressure of modern life.

In Japan, where societal pressures often emphasize conformity and perfection, Evangelion serves as a mirror to the struggles of its youth. The characters, particularly Shinji Ikari, embody the isolation and the tension between individual desires and collective expectations. The film’s raw exploration of depression and anxiety reflects the intense societal challenges faced by young people in Japan—issues like overwork, expectations of academic success, and the constant pressure to "fit in." Shinji's journey is, in many ways, symbolic of a generation's desperate search for meaning in a world that often feels cold and indifferent.

Globally, The End of Evangelion speaks to universal feelings of alienation. The film doesn't shy away from depicting intense emotional vulnerability, making it relatable to anyone who's ever felt disconnected or misunderstood. The final scenes, with their surreal and philosophical undertones, challenge viewers to confront their own fears, doubts, and desires.

Whether you’re a fan of mecha anime or not, The End of Evangelion is an unforgettable experience. It’s a film that transcends its genre and cultural roots, making it a timeless exploration of the human condition. It forces us to ask—what happens when we confront our deepest fears and try to make sense of an increasingly complex world?