Hibike! Euphonium Season 3 ended not just by paying homage to its legacy within anime, but also to its real environment, and everyone who contributed to the series, even the ones who aren’t among us anymore. The way it built a future from all its past accomplishments mirrors how KyoAni is moving forward too.
Our previous piece on Hibike! Euphonium S3 dove into how the series gradually drowns you into its sense of dread, so deftly that you hardly realize you’re in an uncomfortable situation until it’s too late to escape it. It doesn’t matter that its scenarios remain objectively low-stakes, nor that it retains the more whimsical elements of the series—if anything expanding upon them when compared to the more utilitarian movie that precedes it—it’s as if Eupho S3 uses its soothing classical music to lull you into walking into quicksand. Having arrived at this point in the story, though, that need for subtlety is elegantly defenestrated; and with it, what remains of its protagonist’s emotional wellbeing too.
That change in the delivery can be felt immediately by contrasting the directorial approach that Taichi Ishidate takes on episode #09, compared to his work a few weeks prior for #05. In what had been his return to storyboarding and episode directionEpisode Direction (演出, enshutsu): A creative but also coordinative task, as it entails supervising the many departments and artists involved in the production of an episode – approving animation layouts alongside the Animation Director, overseeing the work of the photography team, the art department, CG staff… The role also exists in movies, refering to the individuals similarly in charge of segments of the film. duties after quite a few years, Ishidate proved not to have lost any step with a densely packed episode that emphasized expression through implication. It’s not as if it lacked the blunt emotional punchiness that you’d expect from the director of Violet Evergarden, but most of the episode was dedicated to nudging in the direction of the cast’s mental state through very pointed visual motifs. Themes of alienation (sometimes perceived, sometimes self-imposed, sometimes very humanly cruel) were all over the episode, as were the implications that time has passed and a confrontation where not everyone can achieve their goal awaits in the near future. And yet, the time wasn’t yet, so none of this was directly conveyed.
As Kumiko tries to process her defeat in the second to last audition, Ishidate and company see no reason to continue beating around the bush. This is not to say that the storyboarding loses its nuance, as is evident in choices like Kumiko only showing half of her face when she says the lines a president is supposed to; a literalization of the idea that she’s hiding part of her that becomes more evident when the visible half is immediately flipped in the following scene, where she has friction with Mayu again. Ishidate returns to the same colorful magnets he used to depict exclusion in episode #05 to show an attempt at unity within the leaders of the club—but it’s an appropriately sloppy line, because they’re not really on the same page.
Following her defeat in the audition, Kumiko is consistently placed below Mayu on the frame, whereas fellow Taki victim Kanade remains on her level; a difference as stark as the sincerity in Kumiko’s smile when she’s with either of them. The naturally developing factions within the club become palpable even without groups of friends, and sparklers correlate to how their holders are faring: Kumiko’s seems to die down as she can’t find comfort in Reina, while Mayu’s catches a second wind thanks to Tsubame’s support. No matter where you look, this is a beautifully, very deliberately staged episode.
It goes without saying, but its shift towards a more straightforward emotional impact also doesn’t mean that the writing has shed its rich texture either. Hashimoto deliberately flubbing a joke to lighten up the overly tense atmosphere takes a sharp turn when he also uses that moment to remind Taki that he’s losing the plot completely. The teacher’s case remains a fascinating one until the very end, as the show isn’t particularly subtle about its stance on his childishness—even using it to dismantle Kumiko’s mistaken view of adults as fundamentally different, wise beings—but never spells out the full extent of his conflicted feelings. And yet, the show’s thoughtful delivery has given the viewer enough pieces to figure out that he does hold them, in the same way that the previous cracks in Reina’s iron fist help you understand she doesn’t fully believe the things she feels forced to say now. The situation can cause even a special, highly gifted individual to feel on edge, hence why Kumiko not facing her with honesty sets her off more than anything else.
It’s precisely that thoughtful direction and writing that makes Ishidate’s blunter appeal to the emotions this time around land with as much impact as it does. Tomoyo Kurosawa’s performance as Kumiko has been an all-timer for years, and yet she finds ways to take it to the next level in moments like her painfully strained voice as she tries to sound like a cheery club president in front of Mayu. Her confrontation with Reina on the bridge is as blunt as staging in Eupho will ever be, likely making use of his own uncredited animation (check those Violet-like furious expressions on Reina) to emphasize how tense of a clash this was for the both of them; while they’ve not been on the same page for pretty much the entirety of this third year, it’s only now that they’ve had to start facing that issue, and Reina’s dramatism is known for overshadowing her tact. The director hypothesized that she might feel worse afterward for saying these disparaging words to Kumiko than the protagonist was about hearing them, but rather than comfort, that only offers a larger dose of sorrow.
After some more painful club politics, which make it plainly clear that this club would have imploded without Kumiko playing emotional coach every 5 minutes and defusing the mines other members keep carelessly dropping, episode #10 is kind enough to offer some respite. When she’s at her lowest, Kumiko turns to the single most influential figure in her student life. Asuka is now living with Kaori—give us this spinoff, but maybe don’t actually—and her appearance has visibly changed, but Kumiko immediately notices that her core remains intact; down to the teacups we should be familiar with, and even her choice of cookies.
Cynical as she may be, and despite it ultimately being a trajectory she was already in, it’s Asuka’s sharp judgment and appeal to sincerity that finally pushes Kumiko to start facing the club’s issues with more honesty. It’s communication that is all over her response, and what ultimately sanitizes the atmosphere of the club. And very noticeably, it’s not a matter of personal skill as a player that fuels her reenactment of the iconic moment of frustration of the first season, but a desire to lead everyone to success. It’s almost like this whole story is heading in a specific direction, which highlights what Kumiko’s real calling has been all along.
Rather appropriately, the theme of the following episode is the future. It’s what drives the conversations between the Kitauji Quartet, between Reina and Kumiko themselves, and also what the latter begins seeing with more clarity for herself. I’ve noted before that Eupho’s Final Movement was always a very interesting story, but not necessarily a well-told one in its original form—at least not in terms of structure and flow. The anime once again has the upper hand here, rearranging the appearance of certain characters to have a complete package of Liz and the Blue Bird homages, and also to place Kumiko’s final realization that her future really isn’t in competitive music environments where it will be most effective.
Though she always had an inkling, witnessing Mizore’s performance (and later listening to her always honest judgments of the protagonist) makes it patently clear that this is not her world. And yet, as clear as that is, it doesn’t mean that Kumiko will take it on the chin. In one of his most brilliantly storyboarded sequences, director Noriyuki Kitanohara uses a mirror to reflect Kumiko as she tries to put up a front with her sister, only to have the latter physically force her to face straightforward and come clean about her frustrations this year—only then reflecting them both in the frame. Have I mentioned that Moyo is the greatest voice actress on the planet, by the way? I know I have, but I should do it again.
It’s also the future that dominates the interactions between Kumiko and Reina in episode #11, and in their case, it builds upon the past to do so. On the very same crossroad where the two of them began a more natural relationship back in the first season, their roles swap to prepare the foundations for one that will last into the future. One of the reasons Reina has been so desperate to keep dragging Kumiko into a music college is her fear that their bond, which for all these years has been built upon this shared occupation, will vanish without that material link. The girl who once looked mature and determined in Kumiko’s eyes is now clearly shown to be amusingly childish, a quality that only a supremely talented and privileged individual would be allowed to maintain for this long. This is why it has to be a now mature Kumiko—who might as well be a decade older after the mental fatigue of running this club—that reassures her about their relationship continuing. And yet, this is something that she phrases very deliberately; you are special, not we, so you won’t change. After this bittersweet episode, Kumiko can clearly envision her path.
The amusing punchline to that episode comes in the midst of #12, as Michie reveals that every other teacher already knew Kumiko’s choice of career before she found the resolve to write it down. If there’s one realization that you hope she has in the future, it’s that she herself also has a very special talent, one that might not be as glamorous as Reina’s but that is just as impressive. The reason why everyone around her had already assumed that she’d become a teacher in the future is that Kumiko was born for the role—or rather, was shaped for it.
As a kid who used to be a blabbermouth, Kumiko learned how to navigate uncomfortable social situations. She gained the ability to defuse interpersonal conflicts, and never lost the nosiness that drew her to them. For all these 3 years of high school, she hasn’t driven the plot by being a star player, but rather by finding her way into every student’s problems and helping them out to bring balance to the whole. As president, those abilities to lead students have been put to the test, and now she’s on her way to success. You could easily argue that the most coherent way to end this story would be not by highlighting her technical ability playing the euph, but rather her maturity and the ability to lead others. And in the end, that’s what the team behind this adaptation thought too.
I say in the end not just because this bold storytelling choice happens in the final arc, but also because it was something that the staff had to discuss among themselves. In an interview with animate Times, 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. Tatsuya Ishihara revealed that writer Jukki Hanada had prepared two scenarios: one where Kumiko would prevail in the final audition like in the source material, and one where she’d lose. While Ishihara admitted that he’d have normally opted for the former, the latter simply felt like the better option to underline the direction of Kumiko’s growth, the extent (and limitations) of Reina’s resolve, and as a means of cracking Mayu’s character in a way the original novels never could. Though it may come as a surprise for anime watchers, original author Ayano Takeda had also made a bold choice of her own with the source material by leaving this mysterious new character still cryptic in the end, arguably never having become a part of Kitauji. Given this team’s obsession with humanizing the cast, that was never going to fly in the adaptation.
Kumiko and Mayu’s final confrontation is perfectly built up by Taichi Ogawa’s storyboards and Takuya Yamamura’s direction, visually emphasizing the duality before the time comes. In the process, the two of them already trade blows. Mayu has spent half the show trying to get Kumiko to directly admit that her desired outcome is to play the soli alongside Reina, something that she has been drowning in her presidental pleasantries. While she will only say it out loud in front of her partner as this episode ends, Mayu manages to crack that façade—though in doing so, Kumiko also forces her to come clean with her own feelings.
In the end, and just like Eupho S1 wasn’t particularly interested in the specific incident that made Kumiko warier of her position within the previous club, the actual reason why Mayu is terrified of pushing friends away through her playing isn’t what matters here. What does, however, is the fact that the two of them manage to have their first honest conversation; again, something that the storyboards underline beautifully through the usage of light and shadow. Two girls who are similar at their core, but whose experiences have shaped them to be very different in the present, and whose poorly timed meeting has been causing friction for an entire season. But from now on, maybe two friends? Overshadowed by grander events and dreadful discourse, this might actually be the biggest change in this adaptation.
And speaking of changes, it’s time to address the elephant in the room. As we’ve been alluding to, there’s one direction that this season was signaling towards, and it wasn’t one where Kumiko would succeed in the audition. This episode itself foreshadows it with Kumiko’s own attitude, and details like Reina getting stuck at the gate when she’s trying to pump up Kumiko to play with her. And yet, every single viewer still thought that she would naturally win, even those who hadn’t read the source material. We’re simply conditioned to believe that in the end, the protagonist will succeed—unquestionably, in all respects, even if they downplay the message of the work. Mind you, I don’t hold the original result against Takeda’s work; while it is having its cake and eating it too, it’s a minor concession in favor of a beloved character, and I’m the first one to wish for Kumiko’s success. When comparing the two, however, I know which one is the more coherent conclusion to this anime, and arguably a better embodiment of the guiding principles of the writing in the series.
For as interesting as those ideas are, it’s the execution of this episode that might elevate the whole series. It speaks of Eupho’s careful delivery that it’s easy to tell apart the performers during the secret audition, and yet, that experience is leveraged against the viewer too; surely you can tell what Kumiko’s sound is, but since the storyboarding is more dynamic during the other performance, surely that is more likely to belong to the victorious protagonist? The episode’s relationship with audience expectations becomes truly fascinating when you factor in that familiarity with Kumiko’s style of play.
For 3 years—nearly 10 in the real world—we’ve grown accustomed to one type of sound, belonging not just to Kumiko but also to Asuka as her mentor. Inadvertently to the viewer, they’ve codified what good playing means, so there’s a natural tendency to prefer it over Mayu’s more clinical play. And yet, the truth remains that it’s also the sound of defeat in the nationals, so everyone in the club pushing for a new approach has a great argument to shake things up… even if that may come across as a betrayal of their ideals, and friends in some cases.
In spite of that irrefutable truth, and even with the logical understanding that Mayu has a technical edge over Kumiko, everything still comes to a coin flip. In the same way that I can tell you that I’m aware of how Eupho has inculcated a preference for a specific sound, I will also admit that I prefer it on a personal level, with not one single but. Kumiko may be more prone to missteps and less geared towards competition, but I genuinely do prefer her more emotional play when compared to Mayu. And the beautifully twisted punchline is that this would have been the prevalent thought within the club in years prior too. While the more technically capable members of the club show better awareness of Mayu’s slightly superior proficiency, that doesn’t mean that it determines their final vote.
We find a perfect example in Midori, who was re-established as the embodiment of pure love for music earlier in Motomu’s arc. While she reacts very strongly to Mayu’s performance and shows hesitation, she still prefers Kumiko’s sound—much like Kanade. Had Mizore (undisputably the greatest musical talent in Kitauji history) been in the club still, she would have definitely done the same, as she views music as something very personal.
And yet, much of the narrative this season has been about the changing tides in the club. Their increasing levels of success in the preceding years have attracted the attention of not just goofballs as usual, but also serious players like Sally who aim for the top and have the skills to back that sentiment. As a very sweet girl, she found herself trapped in guilt for pushing the club towards these grander goals, while at the same time seeing her fellow first years suffer for it. One of the first challenges for Kumiko as a president was soothing her, to offload those feelings into the figure of what Sally perceived to be an almighty president. 9 episodes later, we see Sally with more confidence than ever, voting for the person she thinks is most likely to lead the club to ultimate success. The person who gave her that confidence was Kumiko, and the recipient of that vote was not.
Eupho doesn’t have a particularly kind view of music competitions, outright deeming this cycle that clubs go through as unnatural, but can’t help but be fascinated by them. An activity necessarily done within a large group, and yet the source of many individual clashes among casts that change every year. Art, but also an attempt to achieve some sort of objective superiority. All those mixed feelings are packed into this beast of an episode, and all of them explode when Kumiko and Reina meet again in their most special place.
One recurring theme across these last episodes is that even if there’s one ultimate endpoint that makes the most sense to reach, one prevalent feeling in someone’s heart, that doesn’t magically make every other option cleanly disappear. Kumiko has already accepted that her future relationship with music ought to change, but that doesn’t invalidate the fact that she really wanted to play this soli with Reina. The latter may have accepted that her path and Kumiko’s won’t perfectly overlap, and even be willing to vote against her to increase the chances of winning the nationals, but that doesn’t mean it won’t tear her from the inside. Back at Daikichiyama, Kumiko tries to reaffirm a heartbroken Reina in a familiar fashion, the way she once established herself as wanting to be special. Kumiko wants to be the type of admirable adult who can offer this comfort and stand proud for her decisions to lead the club to success even at the cost of one of her other dreams, but she’s not quite there yet, so her emotions burst out.
The truth is that she might never actually get there, because that ideal adult doesn’t really exist. But as long as she maintains relationships like this one, she’ll always have a place to unleash her feelings in full. Now that she has tasted frustration truly on par with Reina’s always heightened feelings, the two finally feel like they stand on the same level, even if their paths moving forward won’t be the same; a step that cast and staff have called anything between breaking Reina’s magical spell to being cured from the Reina virus (lol), coinciding that it’ll lead to a more natural and long-lasting relationship. Even within this dramatic scene, the events give credence to that belief—what matters most is that Reina did immediately recognize Kumiko’s sound, something that makes her smile even during one of her most bitter experiences.
Another point that becomes apparent during scenes like this is that Eupho S3 #12 might very well be the best-animated episode in the whole franchise, which is quite the bar to clear. While previous highlights packed more of a punch with minutes upon minutes of highly detailed mechanical drawings, the strengths of this episode aren’t particularly subtle either. Eupho is no stranger to volumetric, highly detailed character art, but the level at which this episode consistently commits to that idea is something that no previous one had achieved; and that includes previous outings by supervisors Kayo Hikiyama and Mariko Takahashi, who usually reserved such an approach for very specific scenes. While its greatness can be perceived throughout the whole runtime, no moment embodies the upside better than the aforementioned climax at Daikichiyama, which shows the increased level of detail exists for the purpose of an equally higher level of emotional scrutiny.
Stylization is inherent to animation, but also a process that tends to shed the nuance of people’s emotions into a single predominant feeling. Even within remarkable pieces of character animation, those tend to be showcases of purely “sad”, “happy”, “angry” feelings in isolation; if you’re extremely lucky, they’ll transition between those in a convincing fashion, approaching something more akin to actual acting. This episode of Eupho doesn’t only manage that in stunning fashion, but also makes sure that every single expression contains a mix of emotions concurrently, even if they’re conflicting ones like relief and bitter frustration. While the preceding episodes of Eupho S3 had been produced by a rotation of key animationKey Animation (原画, genga): These artists draw the pivotal moments within the animation, basically defining the motion without actually completing the cut. The anime industry is known for allowing these individual artists lots of room to express their own style. groups in an exact, mechanical cadence, these last episodes broke that pace to prioritize a certain type of character acting specialist to best handle this magnificent episode.
A notable figure among them is Tomomi Sato, a rising animation ace within the studio who was invited to the staff commentary track for its first Blu-ray volume. While those were recorded before the show’s broadcast—their contents were already mentioned in a prescreening event—they knew about the show’s future release schedule, which allowed for timely shout-outs to her excellent work. Sato had been on the rise in previous projects, but Eupho’s return really feels like the moment when she has been recognized as one of the studio’s greatest assets. She was the one who drew all the illustrations for the local collaboration celebrating Genji Monogatari’s author, and the one who animated climactic moments in this season like Kumiko’s aforementioned scene with Sally in episode #03. What many didn’t expect, though, was that she’d also singlehandedly animate the climax in episode #12; nor that this would be offhandedly confirmed by Ishihara himself, in a commentary track recorded months prior but due to release just 3 days after that episode was broadcast.
While I doubt that they gave it that much thought, the conversation between the two series directors and Sato is a perfect summary of what sets their studio apart. When talking about what she likes about her role, Sato immediately highlighted the back-and-forth relationship that she has with directors from her position as a key animator. She won’t only read their storyboards and execute them as they are, but think about the character as an autonomous being. She’ll wonder what they would do in that situation to come up with details to make the character expression—her number one priority in animation—richer, more representative of their innermost feelings and their personal circumstances. After that, she will approach the directors to see if her additions align with their vision, and try to find alternative solutions if they don’t.
Rather than get defensive about their work being challenged, the directors expressed gratitude about being surrounded by people who don’t just have technical skill, but also this desire to engage with their works and writing on a deeper level. While on its own this isn’t an extraordinary attitude, its prevalence at the studio isn’t matched elsewhere, and perfectly tracks with the fact that they’ve transitioned into being a place where only animators become directors, as they’re already hired and trained with those aspirations.
That same care and belief in the personhood of their characters extends into the finale, which dedicates a couple of minutes to a pep talk that shows every single one of the club’s 91 members. They all have names, distinct designs, and even personalities that we’ve seen implied in the backgrounds countless times; it wasn’t until this point that we knew a certain first-year saxophonist was named Mashima Mashiro, but it immediately clicked for her and the amusing behavior we’d been seeing this season. Even when it comes to the finale’s central motif of legacy that connects the past with the future, that is embodied not just by the core cast, but by all the small stories that have continued to pass along around them.
The emphasis on the younger members of the club once their performance blooms into their Another Beginning section is another deliberate choice by Ishihara, who wanted them to embody the future. Incidentally, pay attention to how Suzume is the only person who has to draw a deep breath in the midst of her playing, as a newbie who was chosen for her powerful volume rather than efficient playing.
That ensemble and legacy focus ended up shaping the final performance too; in this case, as a direct translation of Takeda’s writing, which was also much more focused on linking each segment of their seasonal piece to the memories that fuel them than about the objective depiction of the performance. Though the staff considered focusing on the performance itself like they’d done before, this felt like the correct choice storytelling-wise. In this regard, it’s worth remembering that the story that is being told is not just that of Kitauji, but also of the city of Uji itself, and of Kyoto Animation. We’ve talked repeatedly about the time capsule approach they’ve taken to depicting their own hometown, and the finale emphasizes that more than ever with an understated reveal that all along you had caught glimpses of a show very tangibly set in the exact month it began, something that wouldn’t hold any meaning if it wasn’t just as precise at recapturing their past.
While studio representatives haven’t addressed it directly to avoid sensationalizing a painful topic, that does include their own comrades, even ones whose lives were lost in the arson attack. It was Kumiko’s VA who confirmed the suspicions that viewers with keen eyes already had, by noting that everyone was there in the final performance, including the creators; explaining in the process why there didn’t seem to be many family members among the attendees, as it was their real-world parents who were made present instead. In the end, it’s impossible to separate this story from the physical place that all their creators share, from the studio whose work is the reason that the series even exists past its first novel.
Eupho S3 completes its victory lap with an epilogue that doesn’t just unveil its cheeky storytelling tricks as pointed out above, but also commits to its final message of building a future out of everything we gained in the past. Kumiko, who’d reached a similar conclusion to that of Liz, is now a young teacher who echoes her predecessors—just like how she had acted as a new club president. And yet, she’s distinctly Kumiko still, hence immediately drawn to a young euph player with a red scarf, sitting by a senior silver. This cycle will continue, and more flowers will bloom. That is Eupho’s desire, as well as the studio’s. Is that it for the series, then?
About a month before the end of the broadcast, Ogawa’s interview for Newtype provided his cheeky answer to that question, by noting that Kumiko’s story was over. To anyone aware of the two spinoffs that fans have always hoped to see animated, and the popularity of a couple of university students in particular, there are certain ways to interpret his deliberate phrasing. Although this story is by all means over, there is already an event announced for this fall, and next year will mark the 10th anniversary of the anime. While I wouldn’t expect anything soon given the studio’s very careful pace of production, it’s worth noting that all previous seasons were eventually edited (and re-animated) into enhanced recaps, and that such a thing could connect with a new entry further down the line.
Had Eupho truly ended for good here, though, I’d be perfectly content. The material that this third season was entrusted with was always something I found interesting, but also very troublesome and in need of exactly the type of thorough editing it got—nevermind the bold yet thoroughly coherent turn it took near the end, one that I believe elevated it to be on part with the franchise’s best moments. If there’s one bitter element to it, it would be a certain aspect of its reception more than anything else. It’s easy to brush off comments about the decrease in performance footage being a consequence of the arson debilitating the studio, as they’re not just deeply disrespectful, but also completely out of touch coming after the franchise’s perhaps best-animated episode. I suppose that’s what you get when the discourse is driven by dudes so allergic to watching anything not demonstrably made for them that they’d never be around to witness how Tsurune S2 greatly increased the number of equally tricky kyudo sequences, just because in that case it was seen as the correct storytelling choice.
However, the small (let’s not forget it was the highest rated work of animation of the year so far!) but extremely vocal set of fans who have been harassing creators, even leaving disrespectful messages in the studio’s store, paint a bleak picture of an anime fandom with extremely narrow understandings of storytelling and a disempowering view of anime studios. It doesn’t matter that this series was well-liked, because a group of aggressive individuals with subpar comprehension skills have already created the impression that it was controversial. It doesn’t matter that the author—who has repeatedly added original developments from this team within her novels—explained that nothing was done against her will, because source material absolutists have further poisoned an already toxic well. Fortunately and beyond those embarrassing incidents, KyoAni has (for the good and for the bad) always been blissfully unaware of what online communities think. When it comes to other producers, though, I’m afraid that this will only increase the rigidity of adaptations further down the line. The anime industry may be a depressing place, but at least we have Eupho, so I suppose things could be a lot worse.
Though we could end this already very long article here, it feels worth it to link this topic of the future and Eupho’s connection with the studio by asking what’s next for KyoAni themselves. A few weeks ago, a post in the studio’s staff blog made the rounds—and the news—with its vague but still explicit mention that they’re currently quite busy working on new projects, which they’re looking forward to being able to talk about. Although the excitement is understandable, the lack of context most people had about who was it that made the declaration, the history of such hints in the staff blog, and the studio’s current scheduling situation can easily lead to misunderstandings. Mind you, this is not to say that you shouldn’t expect a new KyoAni anime to be unveiled soon. Just by following certain members’ references to their work in that same blog, it’s easy to deduce that their next TV show is almost fully animated by this point, so an announcement shouldn’t lag behind too much; especially not during the first time in decades where the studio has no upcoming anime formally unveiled.
Who was it that alluded to upcoming projects, then? The person behind the inspired name and concept that is Kebabdon—a love child between the food and the large shark—is Masashi Nishikawa, a member of the studio’s literature department. As he noted in that same article, which focuses on his participation in the recruitment process for 2025, that team tends to do a little bit of everything; so more than any specific type of knowledge, they seek individuals who find it fulfilling to assist a larger group in creative endeavors. Of all people on the team, that is particularly true of Nishikawa, who back in 2020 already described his job as involving anything from editing novels to organizing queues in physical events. Ever since then, the range of his duties has only grown further. On top of all the miscellaneous tasks behind the scenes, Nishikawa has been the assistant producer for a couple of their TV shows (Tsurune’s first season and Maidragon S), while also expanding his writing duties from episodes to larger formats.
Back in July 2021, Nishikawa noted that he was tackling a multitude of new challenges—and given that this was days before the broadcast of Maidragon S that he was known to be involved with, people assumed that he was speaking of the episodes and specials he wrote for the show. In truth, he was mainly referring to his debut as a novelist with Mare: the 10th-anniversary release for the studio’s novel imprint KA Esuma, which was released in the Spring of the following year. When trying to understand the implications of the staff’s musing in their blog, these large production buffers and the width of responsibilities some members have are something that everyone ought to keep in mind.
While it didn’t catch as much attention as this recent post, Nishikawa himself also wrote in March of 2023 that as many projects wrapped up, others were also taking off, confirming his participation in those. Given that this was said in the lead-up to the already announced third year of Eupho, people once again assumed he meant the immediately upcoming anime series. There’s a very straightforward punchline to that assumption, however: Nishikawa has never worked in this franchise, and its final entries haven’t changed that trend. Although it’s possible that he was involved in the process of publishing original novels by renowned writers Reiko Yoshida and Shoji Gatoh, his lack of promotion for those and the fact that he wasn’t around in the office to write a post in July 2023 as he was due—exactly as the animation for Eupho S3 wrapped up—appear to imply that he was already referring to upcoming anime he’s involved with, back in Q1 2023.
This begs the question: is there any particular work that Nishikawa is more likely to be involved with? As it happens, he has participated in the makings of 20 Seiki Denki Mokuroku, aka Denmoku, before it was even published as a novel in 2018. While its anime adaptation has technically been announced ever since then, nothing has been publicly mentioned ever since, despite continuing to sell the novel with an obi that reminds everyone of that; that is, unless you also count the studio commercial inspired by it, which KyoAni used to train young staff a few years ago. Considering that the novel’s theme overlaps with the Expo 2025 to be held in Osaka starting in April, it may be time to finally announce the revival of the project. The truth is that KyoAni themselves were involved in the process of selecting the logo for that event—it was in fact one of the last things that Haruka Fujita was credited for in her time at the company. If you connect all these dots, they certainly start looking Denmoku-shaped.
Another angle to judge upcoming KyoAni works is the animation staff themselves; in a company where everyone works full-time and effectively shows up in every project, absentees and people with smaller workloads are often signs of preparation for upcoming work. Just from looking at the staff rotation in Eupho S3, you can easily deduce interesting information, like Ishidate remaining in the directorial roster and likely showing up early in their next show alongside the likes of Kitanohara. The most suspicious cases by far, though, are that of the completely missing director Eisaku Kawanami and animation director Tamami Tokuyama. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if Kawanami had parted ways with the studio given how bursting with directorial talent their Osaka branch is, he certainly was employed by them during Eupho’s production cycle, yet he never showed up. In Tokuyama’s case, someone we know for a fact is still around due to her presence in the staff blog, her cute round drawings went missing after episode #05 alongside Ishidate; we’ve already seen her give a try to design work in small projects, so perhaps she’s preparing for the next step as well.
The extra mention to Kitanohara is a good excuse to mention not just how he snuck in his elaborate portrayals of light and physical phenomena in neat ways, but also managed to storyboard a pizza-sharing cut most people won’t pay attention to where everyone shows their personality through the way they grab it. Truly KyoAni Sicko behavior.
Just like in Nishikawa’s case, though, it’s worth remembering that the studio does a lot of work beyond their TV shows. And right now, they only intend to keep branching out further. The tragedy exactly 5 years ago forced them to make a choice: compromising their philosophy, compromising their quality, or compromising their speed. They made the best possible choice by slowing down a lot, but that has led to a situation where there are more bottlenecks, so an animation production company that was already known for doing all sorts of smaller work on the side has now to double down on that to avoid wasting their resources. Their recent side ventures—all sorts of local promotions, short films, experiments in merging picture books with audio storytelling—may only be the tip of the iceberg for a studio that employs nearly 200 people, but insists on putting out fewer shows than recently promoted support studios with no real in-house structure.
Though it’s not unheard of for large studios to run pitch systems for original anime among their staff (Sunrise being a known case), KyoAni’s unique situation has led to them running internal contests for anyone—from trainees to the most veteran directors—to pitch whatever type of project they think would be entertaining, from picture books to drama CDs. Back in 2023, the studio launched Muse Labo, a branch for their experimental ventures. Their first project was Hagureboshi, a reunion for Violet Evergarden members that can be traced back to conversations they had during the production of its Gaiden theatrical OVA. The decision to establish this separate brand, however, may be related to creating a space where those diverse staff pitches can be released. Though I’m aware that the majority of people interested in KyoAni’s anime don’t care about such projects, the truth is that right now you can’t really separate them. It was Ishidate himself who led Hagureboshi, and its producer in charge was the same Sakiko Yamamoto who led the wonderful sequel to Tsurune (and likely the Uji promo video too).
In the same way that Eupho S3 made a point about the members with little screentime being integral to the club’s success, right now all these side gigs are important for KyoAni to operate in a stable fashion. Fewer people overseas may notice them, but they train the staff that then goes and becomes star players in major titles, while also keeping vets occupied when necessary. It gives them a place to convey stories that they feel are theirs, and that’s a spirit that carries over to their major titles, allowing them to give it their all. We are indeed approaching new KyoAni anime, but it’s all these small things that connect us to the future.
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