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Sakugabooru Animation Awards 2025 – Gdrivenime

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Once again, we’ve gathered animators, directors, producers, designers, and people passionate about art to share the works that resonated with them the most last year. It’s time for the 2025 Sakugabooru Animation Awards, our very own Sakugabowl!

Entries:
— Yuichiro Iida
— Fede
— Takuya Niinuma
— Franziska van Wulfen
— ちな
— S(p)am
— Ken 🍁 Yamamoto
— chi
— eichiwai / Hayato Kunisada
— Omar
— Aarón Rodríguez
— Maki
— Yuuji “mutobe” Tokuno
— Geth
— Kasen / Akihiko Sudo
— Ukloim
— Adanusch
— Kevin

Yuichiro Iida

Animator, Character Acting King In The Making, Funny Guy [Twitter] [Sakugabooru Tag]
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Anime, even in 2025, remains a strangely unchanged medium. While the rest of the world has shifted toward automation, industrialized pipelines, and efficiency, hand-drawn animation still operates on a production logic that was essentially completed in the mid-1900s. That may sound like exaggeration, but anyone who has sat in front of a layout, a timing sheet, or a stack of corrections knows it is not. The tools have changed—tablets, software, digital compositing—but the structure, the mental model, the way time moves inside a cut has not. Anime feels like an industry that never fully left the past, and yet continues to produce images and emotions that could only exist in the present.

This is not nostalgia. It is a reminder that something incomplete—old-fashioned, even compromised—can still hold overwhelming power. Hand-drawn animation demands time, talent, and human stubbornness. It consumes the effort of multiple departments just to create several minutes, or at best a few hours, of footage. Logically, this workflow is too unreasonable in 2025. And yet, somehow—almost surprisingly, even coming from the production side—this friction creates happiness. The kind of happiness that feels irrational in economic terms, but undeniable as an outcome.

2025 was full of that happiness.

Medalist, GQuuuuuuX, Shoushimin, mono, Lazarus, Apocalypse Hotel, CITY, My Dress-Up Darling… the list goes on far beyond what I can comfortably fit here. This is not a hierarchy; it feels more like a table full of dishes too good to finish. A year where simply “keeping up” with anime as a viewer required energy.

Personally, this was also my first year working as a full-time animator. Because of that, the months seemed to vanish at a violent speed. I am still a first-year animator, barely at the entrance of a vast industry, so I do not pretend that I have the authority to declare anything definitive. Part of me thinks I should not choose “bests” at all. But another part of me believes that if people inside the medium never say what they love, the landscape becomes quieter than it should be.

So this is not a declaration of correctness. It is a record of what I saw, what moved me, and what I hope I can someday draw. Some details may be inaccurate due to the layered nature of production pipelines.

(COI: I worked on some of the shows mentioned here, directly or indirectly.)

  • Best Episode: Takopi’s Original Sin #05 (Storyboard/Direction: Hirotaka Mori, Chief Animation Direction: Danny Chow (卓子意))

Takopi’s Original Sin was unquestionably one of the greatest series of 2025. Danny Chow’s cute—yet subtly threatening—drawing style lands perfectly on an episode built around a turning point. Hirotaka Mori’s direction, supported by a staff full of high-level animators, creates a structure that breathes and shrinks like a controlled muscle.

It starts with a deceptively uplifting atmosphere and an exclusive OP sequence. The layouts, drawings, and compositing are so carefully handled that you can already feel pressure accumulating. As the episode progresses, the momentum snaps: the turning point arrives with an intense rush of animation that feels like it is accelerating even as the footage advances at normal speed.

When it comes to the genga, I do not have enough space to praise everyone, but I need to highlight at least the following: the early 10+10 sequence that sets the rhythm, Hiroaki Arai’s delicate character acting (and consistent contribution to the series as an in-house animator), as well as Shoya Sakaguchi’s 3D+2D hybrid work that feels like a glimpse into the next stage of the industry.

At the climax, 10+10’s creativity overflows in the “Happy Star” sequence. I mean this in the most respectful way, but it is genuinely difficult for an adaptation to outdo the original manga due to resource constraints. Yet here, the shift in art style, color, detail, and compositing does not feel like an expansion—it feels inevitable, as though it was always meant to bloom this way. ENISHIYA’s refusal to compromise allowed one of the best manga of the 2020s to become a masterpiece of its animated decade. I cannot praise them enough.

  • Best Show: Let This Grieving Soul Retire! – Season 2 (Excluding some other obvious picks like To Be Hero X, Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX, My Dress-Up Darling Season 2, Shoushimin Season 2, Medalist; Series Direction: Masahiro Takata)

If you have not seen Masahiro Takata’s work, I envy you, because that means you still get to experience it for the first time. Takata does not attempt to imitate prestige; he maximizes the strengths of TV anime as it actually exists. The pacing, comedic timing, layout choices, and SE placement all feel like the work of someone who knows precisely when to tighten and when to let in air. If high-end anime is Paul Bocuse, this is the bistro where three-star chefs eat on their days off. Serious yet surreal, funny yet grounded in emotional logic—it reminds you what weekly anime can do. For those who work on or consume today’s high-quality action shows, Let This Grieving Soul Retire hits especially hard.

  • Best Opening / Ending: My Dress-Up Darling Season 2 OP (link), With You and the Rain OP (link), The Water Magician OP (link), Kingdom Season 6 ED (link)
    • My Dress-Up Darling Season 2 OP: CloverWorks’ Umehara team does not treat adaptation as production; they treat it as responsibility. Responsibility to the audience, but also to the original author, who perhaps only gets one chance for their work to be animated in their lifetime. Under the supervision of the trustworthy Yuki Yonemori, we have the core of Umehara’s team, Kerorira, delivering a perfect solo key animation sequence. No excess line mileage, no wasted motion—just the exact drawings needed to express the character. It functions as a proper appetizer before the main course: heightening expectation without overshadowing it. I would also like to highlight the fact that clean-up and in-between duties were handled fully by the in-house staff at Cloverworks. Efforts like that are why this OP embodies their attitude towards creating anime, with that aforementioned respect and responsibility.
    • With You and the Rain OP: Ballpoint-like lines, shadowless design, symbolic framing, and a protagonist walking through the “panels” of a lifetime. Stylish, controlled, and quietly confident. Elegant job that perfectly matched the aim of the show. The kind of OP people discover on a small TV past midnight and remember for years.
    • The Water Magician OP: Shougo Teramoto is absolutely a rising talent, as this opening demonstrates. It is not loud or showy, but every cut feels like it was decided for a reason. Timing, color, and layout choices are controlled in a way that feels confident, not hesitant. It is calm, but you can tell the ideas underneath are strong. His choice of visual effect is not just decoration. Colors spread like pigment, shapes connect smoothly, and the transitions feel like the scene is changing its state rather than just switching shots. It creates a feeling that the OP is guiding you into the show’s world, instead of trying to overwhelm you from the start. It invites, rather than grabs.
    • Kingdom Season 6 ED: Modern production is defined by specialization; it gives stability but takes away control. This ED, created almost entirely by Hiroe Mutsumi and Kuu Hirano, feels like a rebuttal: hand-drawn characters, CG backgrounds, and refined compositing in complete harmony. Warm, dense, and unmistakably authored.

  • Best Aesthetic: Kowloon Generic Romance

In an era where background art has shifted almost entirely to digital, this series’ decision to keep a predominantly analog base is remarkable. It is not a fully analog effort (there are some sceneries painted digitally), but the commitment to brushstrokes, randomness, and physical texture gives Kowloon a density which digital tools still struggle to emulate.

More importantly, the staff does not avoid the tedious parts that come with analog work. They treat those inconveniences as part of the visual identity. That friction—the “not convenient” parts—becomes warmth. As you watch the show, thanks to the way these traits of a bygone era are tightly bound to the scenery, it taps into nostalgia at light speed.

For me, the biggest surprise this year. Their approach is both unique and already sophisticated, and in my opinion, they have the potential to shift the industry’s visual grammar.

Fede

Studio founder [NEW!], Translator, International Production Coordinator, Savior Of Doomed Projects [Twitter]
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I settled on a rule to avoid titles I was personally involved in, because it feels like self-celebrations aren’t really the point of this award. Similarly, I made a point to avoid works my personal friends had significant participation in; meaning that there’s no Kisekoi nor Apocalypse Hotel, which I really like but I’m already partial to.

I also decided to avoid ironic and rage-bait picks because they’re distasteful as well. Does that mean that other people are making their entries just to ruffle feathers? Obviously no, or so my attorney suggested. And finally, I tried not to attribute too much specific merit to visible, individual creators. After all, some of the best things in the world were quietly carried by overworked douken and shiken 3 hours before the deadline.

  • Best Episode: The Lenticulars #01

It really spoke to me. The textures on the character assets and elsewhere, the timing of the rollings, the way it used said flat assets to mimic telephoto lenses; adding in the process an element of intrigue in a really unique way, making you wonder what’s gonna happen with the unnamed redhead girl. The specific techniques blew my mind.

I never respected those kinds of architects and product designers who are praised for making things as simple as they can in their own way, especially when it’s at the detriment of the final user’s experience. However, now I might get why some nerds appreciate those minimalist designs in a way that’s difficult to articulate. I’m at a point in my animation journey where solving the biggest problems in animation in limited yet unique ways feels like it has an utmost refined, mystical verve to it. These are trains of thought that no other project, perhaps except for Yuri Norstein‘s work or Rapparu’s early achievements, have made me consider before. I would love to end this by saying, “go watch it!“, but I don’t know if many people would really be able to feel this level of mystique in a work like this (that’s enough reverse psychology to make you give it a try, right?)

  • Best Show: CITY: The Animation

I was never the biggest fan of Nichijou, nor have I always given as much credit to Taichi Ishidate compared to other Kyoto Animation-born and raised directors, but this time I was really compelled to give him a nice and warm thumbs up of approval. This also resulted in little old me finally giving a try to the comic, to see if there was something else interesting going on in the source material. By doing this, I solidified my appreciation for how much the anime polishes concepts originating from the manga.

CITY: The Animation doesn’t forcefully try to be a cute girls show, to an extent where it lacks visual attributes that characterize the more mainstream slice-of-life anime legacy you might have expected. Instead, it has the ballsy determination to bet everything on its design/shape philosophy and artistic direction, despite going those sprinting in the polar opposite direction of wherever Reiwa is heading. The staff knows there is something in this novel direction that the viewers will enjoy, even though they aren’t familiar with it yet. They had the willpower (and negotiating capabilities) to bet on their artistic skill and their imagination over anything else. I wish more anime were made like this; no spreadsheet after spreadsheet on why DC Characters + Isekai settings are bound to make a lot of money in the North American market, but confidence in the creative act. Also: bonus points for the dioramas! Those must come back to 2D animation as a fundamental piece of the visual puzzle.

Honorable Mention: The Lenticulars. It’s not finished yet, but it single-handedly made me want to learn how to master super low-budget projects.

  • Best Movie: 100 Meters. / Hyakuemu

The concept of theatrical anime as we knew it is definitely dead, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t make very imaginative cinematic experiences. That’s what Hyakuemu taught me. Yeah, rather than just the technical prowess of the movie, this was a project that really made me think things professionally speaking, rather than just “feeling” them. When Kaido said “You need to accept reality before you start breaking it”, that was something that as an anime creator, living the limitations of what I can produce right now and the specific disadvantages of my material conditions (quoting the wise Nearra), deeply resonated with me.

And the movie seemed to resonate with it too: Rock’n Roll Mountain wasn’t really able to acquire the kind of talent a movie with this level of ambition deserved and would have acquired maybe 10 or 15 years ago. Instead, it had to play its cards with careful strategic might, thinking outside the box for even pivotal scenes that in a mightier studio would have been assigned to theatrical veterans of refined skill. They definitely got the understanding that sometimes, raw and experimental approaches might be better suited to represent the limits of the human experience than the exquisite craftsmanship of the type of renowned veteran who’s now rushing to complete Hathaway’s Flash.

Yeah, Heisei-level craftsmanship is dead. Rotten to the point that it can’t be resurrected. It simply can’t be helped. But this in itself is not a good reason to despair and fall into a defeatist depression. Cool things can still be made! Real powerful animation still dwells in the realm of everyone’s imagination. We need to just understand what can be done and create bangers out of this new limit. So get your butt up from the ground, cleanse yourself from the mud, and let’s make 100 movies like this. The fiends of Reiwaslop will tremble in fear at our combined powers.

  • Best Opening: Shoushimin Season 2 OP (link)

I really like it when a special segment dares to experiment gleefully with the non-cel aspects of animation, then also integrates really bold cel-centric cuts, both in terms of processing and flow. I was really surprised by how jazzy and unpredictable the timing of the individual shots and the cutting was. It goes beyond the level of effort often displayed by intros of its ilk, with strong, abnormal colors curated shot by shot.

Honorable Mention: Nukitashi the Animation OP; don’t watch it with your younger siblings if they’re underage.

  • Best Ending: Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX ED (link)

It perfectly encapsulated the chaotic yet colorful and charming self-expression of teenage girls in their rebellious phase. It’s a cheerful sequence that underlines how they don’t know much yet about the world, how it works, what they want and how to obtain it, through both expressive animation and painstaking set-dressing. It really moved me; it reminded me of teenage yearnings, first crushes, and the impulsive side you leave behind when adult responsibilities take over your way of thinking.

I usually don’t feel like that when I watch slice of life anime, so getting this feeling out of a Gundam entry of all things feels unexpected and intriguing. Oftentimes, such SOL shows struggle due to a lack of visual storytelling. That prevents the viewer from peeking inside the inner world of the characters, who are often at an age where what defines you isn’t so much your actions but who you want to be perceived as. It stops being a matter of establishing an identity through action but rather through aesthetics, which is rare to see in a genre so overly focused on depicting topical moments of youth, such as the passing of seasons, graduations, school festivals, and so on. In contrast to the usual focus on those aspects, and as this sequence demonstrates, I believe that things incidental, tangible memories matter most; the one time you really got into a band, a brand you loved, or the first time you had a sleepover with a friend.

  • Best Aesthetic: Can’t Decide So Here’s A Bunch Of Cool Choices
    • Takopi’s Original Sin: I really liked how the cels and the shiage were processed. It kinda reminded me of how I once tried to color and composite some Kai Ikarashi illustrations; the lucid sections together with the sharp edges were just too powerful, both in the scenes with strong emotional outbursts and also in the moments when Shizuka is miserable.
    • Mononoke the Movie – The Ashes of Rage: There are many things to say about this one, but having multiple ethnicities of characters with visibly different skin tones and eyes/hair colors in fantasy Edo was really a good idea. It made the contrast with the abnormal colors so much more playful and meaningful.
    • Pokemon Concierge Season 2: I really liked the texture of the trees, the sand, and the water—especially that first one! I got me thinking, damn right, I want to make a project at some point where the backgrounds are all dioramas and characters are overlaid as cels. That’s how damn beautiful those textures were.
    • My Melody & Kuromi: The way they played with the combination of fluffy textures and smooth ones on the character props was really good visual storytelling; an elegant way to convey that Kuromi is essentially the same kind of creature as MyMelo, and thus will always have an opportunity to turn her life around.
    • Milky☆Subway: The Galactic Limited Express: Probably the only gray/green/yellow show that I really liked this year. I’m sorry that I keep talking about combinations of elements, but the way stars, city lights, and Makina’s monitor interact was really smart! There were many moments with a layered structure exploiting these elements to inform the viewer about multiple kinds of information at once; the feeling of the characters, nuggets of worldbuilding, and build-up for what’s coming on a narrative level, for example. Watch it if you want to be an enshutsu, rather than… other things that rely too much on superlative cel materials to function.
    • Yano-kun’s Ordinary Days: Backgrounds and cel processing (special mention to the super beautiful line filter) fostered a quaint, almost rustic atmosphere that reminded me of early 00s anime but with a bit more finesse. It was also helped a lot by the fact that Ajia-do is one of the very few studios that retains a good number of animators who are thoroughly competent with layouts; not an aesthetic merit, but still an achievement!
  • Best Animation Designs: Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX (Take, Yumi Ikeda, Shie Kobori)

The fact that Machu looks cute in frontal shots yet handsome in profile ones is a feature and not a bug, as I’ve been told. I guess that’s really what separates good designers from bad designers: the good ones know how to break the rules… or so I’ve been told! Nyaan was also very cute; there were a lot of moments when she looked just like a stray cat. Oh, I guess I know why.

  • Non-contemporary Work Award: Mawaru Penguindrum

I rewatched it! It was really good.

Now this was a sweet surprise: the excitement of discovering Mr. Charley‘s ability to make the screen look interesting without relying too much on traditional layout prowess. Integrating CGI, 3DLO, 2D effects, and patterns into striking palettes without making it feel cheap or collage-like is a skill that always intrigues me, both as a composer and as a director. He’s also able to create interesting compositions using the characters’ unique shape languages, something he achieves through evocation via their outfits and hairstyles. This is visible in his Azur Lane Anniversary PV, showcasing tricks that can work both on very sakuga-heavy projects and on also those where you have to rely more on beautiful still frames. The fact that he can also draw on top of this gives him a great edge over both sakuga-turned enshutsu people and the satsuei-turned enshutsu crowd, so going into the year of the horse, I will be betting a lot of coins on him.

Takuya Niinuma

Animator, Storyboarder, Director, Volumetry Maestro [Twitter] [Sakugabooru Tag]
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  • Best Show: Apocalypse Hotel

Apocalypse Hotel made me appreciate how everything else takes a backseat to the story and doesn’t stand out, in a good way. As an original story with Yachiyo driving the bulk of the narrative, the show on a structural level only works if the audience finds her likable. The voice acting, script work, ideas for interesting character mannerisms, and robot gimmicks all portray her charm while keeping costs low, which I thought was great. It’s amazing that they were able to maintain this restraint for a group production, and on a personal level, my ultimate ideal is creating animation while skillfully hiding your own ego as much as possible, so I appreciate the fact that they took that stance to begin with. It was a good anime that made me want to spend a little longer seeing the characters face the ups and downs of their leisurely daily lives.

  • Best Opening: CITY: The Animation OP (link)

CITY: The Animation moves extravagantly, but I like how this opening tones it down to strike a nice balance. There are an increasing number of cases where openings are produced with ulterior expectations (showcasing creators, building experience, experimenting visually) and end up diverging wildly from the show itself. Because of that, it makes me happy seeing the normalcy of OP/EDs that are simple extensions of the anime. Personally, I prefer OPs like these that stick to the story without embellishment, as those are the ones I think are most pleasant to watch. Let me add, of course, that I think it’s a good thing that there are all sorts of different approaches to OP/EDs.

Also, and this goes for the show itself as well, the colors are cute and it’s full of Keiichi Arawi love.

  • Best Animation Designs: Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX (Specifically, the mechanical work by Ikuto Yamashita)

He’s so famous that there’s really nothing left for me to say. Let’s put aside everything, including whether this fits the category or not: I’ve always loved his work. For years now, I’ve wished that they’d put out an art book that includes his Evangelion Anima work. The fact that they released an Anima compilation after all these years and that he even got to create new designs for Gundam makes me, personally, very happy.

I’ve worked closely with her, so it may seem like favoritism… but this one has to go to Shoichi, hands down.

Her art shows no traces of the common pitfalls as you improve: your style solidifying in a bad way, or letting your ego shine through. It’s amazing to have that level of skilled fluidity that doesn’t trip the viewer.

When you discuss sakuga in isolation from the whole, this ability to be discreet is hard to appreciate. However, fluid sequences handled by studio animators—exemplified by the likes of [Hideki] Hamasu—are indispensable when it comes to managing the pain points for the overall production. That’s why I hope to learn more about such animators and pay attention to them going forward, instead of just Shouichi.

Franziska van Wulfen

Character Designer, Animator, Director, Vtuber, Astarion Liker [Twitter] [Sakugabooru Tag]
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  • Best Episode And Best Animation Designs: Takopi’s Original Sin #03 and Keita Nagahara

Takopi is, without a doubt, one of this year’s strongest showings. Time and time again, it shatters the titular cute alien protagonist’s innocence. Across its six episodes, I believe that it’s the third that achieves this in the most outstanding way. It’s the sort of episode where direction and storyboard manage to propel the script on every beat. Contrasts are the name of the game here; the gut-tightening, blood-splattered still imagery of Takopi’s grizzly crime juxtaposed to childish innocence animated in all its bubblyness. Striking layouts that make characters take up room in the frame when confident, or take it all away, boxing them into repressive, inescapable spaces. Then, POVs pull the viewer in for one moment and alienate them the next, as Takopi sits obliviously in the midst of a brightly lit dining table scene that leaves little up to interpretation, as Marina’s broken home life is revealed. “Please read the room, Takopi!” I couldn’t help but think repeatedly. This episode really doesn’t pull any punches, and it’s so, so good.

Much love to the stellar character design work at play as well. The sketchiness of the manga is replaced with thick, versatile line work that freely moves between gentleness and frantic disorder. It certainly helps that the designs’ simplicity and slightly exaggerated proportions also lend themselves to elaborate character acting, a boon for a show so honed in on the characters’ inner psychology. Both cute and a little crooked, these designs are much like the show itself.

  • Best (Pilot) Movie: The Knights of Guinevere

I have an inkling that plenty of people will have a lot of things to say about the frankly excellent Chainsaw Man Movie, so I will take this opportunity to gush a little about Dana Terrace’s Knights of Guinevere pilot instead. There’s few things I adore quite as much as a fully realized setting that, within a single episode, invites the viewer in like this one does. Here we have a theme park planet that is much better characterized by the drab, oil-smeared waters and gruffy port town that it’s towering over, than all its sparkle and fairytale pretense. In its underbelly hide cold and angular mechanizations. There is so much well-considered shape language and colour design in each of these sets! All of it is filled to the brim with little details, as it paints a vivid picture of a capitalist hellscape. Stories within stories, fantasy in stark contrast with reality. Really, it only needed the imagery of Guinevere’s exposed guts framed in gold to prove to me that this show will be worth keeping an eye out for.

  • Best Aesthetics: The Summer Hikaru Died

The Summer Hikaru Died has an interesting visual approach to its horror. The blue skies are severe, the light piercing, almost painful, comfort seemingly only to be found in the shade. Quite fitting for a show where exposure quite literally would spell doom for our protagonist’s relationship. It also mimics how an actual camera would work! If you light a scene for shadows, detail will be readily visible in the dark, but colours will be blown out wherever the light hits. It’s much the same here, with the consequence that we come to know the darkness and by extension the monster (who is very cute, by the way). Hikaru’s oozing, cell-like appearance is strikingly complex, palpable, much like the whirlwind of emotions he feels and the moral dilemma he and Yoshiki find themselves in. At times, the usual visual language of the show seems to have trouble finding words for all these finicky emotions. Thus, it shortly breaks away from its usual course, becoming free form and a bit experimental, as if it wants to connect at any price. The monster opens up to the best of its abilities, while the village likes to keep its mysteries a bit closer to its chest.  The interplay of light and dark, detail and washed out colours; it all feels very deliberate to the themes of the show, and, you know what? That’s really cool in my view!

  • Best Opening: Apocalypse Hotel OP (link)

Apocalypse Hotel is a damn good watch in its own right. My favorite part, though, has to be its opening. It’s a straightforward, lovely little thing, well crafted in both animation and structure. We start with Yachiyo dancing all by herself, conveying her loneliness as she chases the light. Then, a transition that brightens the entrance hall in warm lights, revealing the whole cast dancing by her side to convey that she is by no means alone. It tells you pretty much all about what this show is about at its core. Of course, Yachiyo’s dance is perfection (how could it not be when she is the one performing), and who doesn’t love an expertly choreographed and animated little dance sequence? That animated camera pan too, what a show-off this opening is!

  • Best Show: Hazbin Hotel Season 2

Hazbin really has come far since its pilot; heck, since its first season even! While that one could be a bit stiff, season 2 is a big step up in pretty much every visual area. For one, the show’s action now packs a real punch, and it’s much more comfortable with breaking character models too. This allows for much more dynamic acting, each character fully expressing themselves in all their cartoon goodness, right down to having individual walk cycles. It’s all very character-first, just how I like it.  However, the real highlight has to be the musical numbers. Bombastic, relentlessly burlesque… they are an onslaught of characters moving through sometimes dozens of individual set pieces, fully embodying and living the voice performances of their Broadway actors. “Should we have a carefully animated camera rotation around Vox playing the piano in this shot? “Why yes!” Hazbin answers. “Wouldn’t it be fun if Niffty stylistically drifts off into anime land in this sequence?” “Absolutely!” It says. “Remember that camera rotation we did earlier? Let’s do that again, but this time with 18 different characters!” Insanity. The boards are fun, the colours pop,  it’s all a jolly good time. The kind of production where the staff’s enthusiasm for their craft becomes infectious.

ちな

Animator, Storyboarder, Director, Writer, Good At Everything? [Twitter] [Sakugabooru Tag]
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  • Best Episode: Ruri Rocks #09

It was great how well Miton-chan’s animation and character acting skills matched the tone of the story for this episode of Ruri Rocks.

I also thought it was amazing how, as episode director, they had to pull the reins in on their own animation.

For good-looking solo episode direction, I always rewatch [Tadashi] Hiramatsu and Mamoru Hosoda eps, but this episode looked so nice, I’ll have to go back to it every once in a while.

Miton-chan’s the best!

  • Best Show: Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX

I watched Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX while complaining incessantly about how they should have done this or that instead. Then, I actually watched the finale live for the first time in a while, all the while complaining. Looking back, it was the most fun I’ve had watching an anime this year.

Instead of worrying about pacing over 12 episodes, each one of them has its own spontaneous energy, which reminds me of longer series and feels novel.

I really loved the way that the advance theatrical screening arranged and presented things; it had me so excited in my seat.

  • Best Movie: Nintama Rantaro: Dokutake Ninja-tai Saikyo no Gunshi

I didn’t go to the movie theater that many times this year, but Saikyo no Gunshi was the best thing I watched.

The following are my memos from immediately after watching it in theaters:

“Fun the whole time. Never a moment of boredom.

It gets you excited about what’ll happen next, and it’s satisfying how it betrays your expectations in a good way. The characters are rock solid, and so are their motives and reactions. The animation is great. None of them ever breaks character.

Thematically, also rock solid. It’s a side story in a franchise, so there are no groundbreaking changes. The story is about reaffirmation. Not too many tricky plot turns.

Even so, you end up with something really interesting thanks to the compelling direction.”

  • Best Opening: Anne Shirley OP (link)

The physicality of the character acting in Anne Shirley‘s opening surpasses the abstraction of the direction, giving it a good balance.

Lately, the sequences that impress me the most aren’t the ones with directorial flair that encapsulate the work, its story, or its relationships; it’s ones like these, where the main character is walking around having the time of her life or whatnot. Simple, solid animation skills that trump strong direction…

  • Best Aesthetic And Animation Designs: Chainsaw Man – The Movie: Reze Arc (Kazutaka Sugiyama)

Character designs included, I like how CSM Reze preserves the matte feel of the original manga.

The beginning, with its comedic beats and the lighthearted feel of its visuals, struck a good balance with its goofy direction, which made it fun to watch in theaters.

S(p)am

Italian flavor sabunga [Twitter] [Blog]
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  • Best Show And Episode: My Dress-Up Darling Season 2 & Episode #15 (S2 #03)

Shinichi Fukuda’s surprisingly weighty rom-com manga touches upon many ideas and themes with enthusiasm and tact—cosplay culture, identity, perception, and all kinds of love—while remaining just as potent as a celebration of passionate dedication to craftsmanship, a hot-blooded story about creativity.

I was already a fan of what director Keisuke Shinohara and Shouta Umehara’s team accomplished with the 1st season of My Dress-Up Darling, but if that initial entry felt like the team’s first tentative attempt at “holding back” (to some extent), then describing this new iteration of Kisekoi as simply “taking the shackles off” hardly does it justice. In this sequel season, I found an adaptation that fully embodies and celebrates that fervent, creation-driven heart of the story in countless new ways, as the team channeled the wild energies of their post–Bocchi The Rock! era to elevate the manga’s effective messaging about self-acceptance and the joy of sharing one’s love for various subcultures.

Series director Shinohara took a gently transformative approach; immediately apparent in the premiere, but gradually revealing its full scope and meticulousness over the course of the season, with displays of character & theme-focused formal playfulness deployed all throughout it in various forms (even when not operating at full production power). This shines especially in assistant director Yuusuke Yamamoto‘s episodes. Nara, arguably the prime force behind this “Bocchification of Kisekoi”, continues to excel in stylistic fearlessness, and while his work here is perhaps a touch less frenzied than in some of his Bocchi episodes, his Bisque contributions are appropriately flamboyant and character-driven in presentation.

If I’ve learned something by following this team’s work, it’s that they foster an environment where bold visualists can thrive: artists excited by the possibilities of the image and confident enough in their instincts to chase any idea, no matter how wild, knowing it will ultimately enrich the final experience. Nara chief among them, though an obligatory mention is also due to Shin Wakabayashi, whose genre-and-medium-bending prowess is on full display in his storyboarded episode #17, excellently processed by Yuuichiro Komuro.

That enrichment manifests not only in terms of emotional delivery but across everything else the staff brings to the table, with a level of craftsmanship so accomplished that I could easily spend countless paragraphs simply gushing over its many remarkable elements. From the consistently true-to-character acting to its thematically on-point mixed-media implementation, and not to mention Erika Nishihara, Ayumi Nagaki, and Yuuto Hama’s extensively researched and inspired costume, props, and typography design work—it’s charming across the board. And that’s only possible because everyone is on the same page in following (and enabling) those artists! That feeling of electrifying creative collaboration is the most generous source of joy I’ve ever encountered in anime: everyone knew what they were doing on this one, and you can feel their excitement, their satisfaction, their pride. You share in it. And you feel it so deeply in part because, of course, that’s what Kisekoi is also about!

And, speaking of how much of a fulfilling experience this season 2 has been, my choice as best episode of the year is none other than Tomoki Yoshikawa’s storyboard and directorial debut for Kisekoi’s 15th episode.

Yoshikawa the animator is already beyond impressive, aside from the technical excellence of his animation, for the expressive transparency of his art; in the past, the staff even joked that he was essentially supplying secondary settei simply by continuing to draw Marin and Gojo, given his natural, expansive grasp of their designs and expressive range. You only need to watch the very first scene of this season he animated with Gojo and Marin to see how at ease he is inhabiting their skin: the gestures he picks, the actions that reflect tone, chemistry and personality without being predictable or obvious… he’s fully committed to character.

Yoshikawa the director brought that same transparency to his directorial debut. A character-driven focus that seeps through not just the thoughtfulness and gestural intensity of the animation or how it’s staged, but through the presentation, structure and framing as well. A conjunction of ideas that places us not simply before the characters’ experiences, but in contact with their inner lives. This is particularly evident in the sequences exploring Amano’s feelings and past, because as the character begins to break down emotionally, so too does the episode’s careful construction.

Yoshikawa enters the subject’s point of view and moves fluidly through various past memories in an array of images so delicately wrought (and so tightly interwoven with its themes of perception, external and gendered expectations, identity and acceptance) that it doesn’t only feel like a great display of technical skill and awareness, but also as if we’ve been granted intimate access to real characters (forgive the oxymoron), not masks performing for our benefit but someone working through something personal and intense all on their own. That is also what transpires from the episode’s depictions of Gojo and Marin’s interactions and moments of everyday life in the latter part of the episode. There, Yoshikawa himself takes a prominent role in the character acting, and I can only agree with Umehara’s description of his work as animation where you don’t feel the animator’s hand, and the drawings simply stand for themselves as Marin/Gojo. It’s something special that I can rarely find in TV anime.

Honorable mention: Yaiba: Samurai Legend #06

Saying Yaiba #06 is the world’s most accomplished Takeshi Maenami sakuga MAD would be an oversimplification given its elaborate, intentional design courtesy of director Yuuji Tokuno. As far as stylish solo-KA episodes go, though, this felt uniquely possessed and motivated.

It’s an episode of TV anime stripped down to its bare minimum to let the aforementioned animator’s preposterous surplus of talent shine through. It’s about a man-bat (named Bat Guy, which is both appropriate and touchingly pretentious) who pisses off our titular protagonist. Then, they start chasing each other with lethal intent… and that’s it! Because that’s all Maenami and Tokuno need. What follows is miraculous, a steel-shod gauntlet of precise angles and vivid color design. Above all stands the disruptive, ever-surprising drawings of the Imaishi/Obari-inspired animator, culminating in an episode that builds the bridge between iconic solo KA efforts and what we like to call sakugakai. By the end, you feel spent but sated, as if every possible creative drop has been wrung out of the simple scenario. I don’t think we’ll see something like this again for the foreseeable future.

Animation and the creative process behind it have long been a subject of self-reflection. They have been portrayed in works both earnest and comedic, with results ranging from merely serviceable to visionary. And yet, I found myself completely bewitched by how First Line dares to make animation not only the center of its narrative but its guiding emotional perspective. In all the big and small ways, it feels informed by countless inspirations, yet it comes across as fresh. Unapologetic in its stylized approximation yet sincere and vulnerable… and also remarkable in form, coasting on a unique internal rhythm. Directed with the rare combination of aesthetic vigor and emotional delicacy characteristic of China (who also wrote the script), First Line is his short film for Toho’s Gemnibus anthology, which had a limited theatrical release in Japan during 2024. It’s my favorite piece of animation I’ve watched this year.

Working alongside common partner in crime and character designer-supervisor Noriyuki Imaoka (who also drew most of its layouts), China proves generous and inventive, exploring not just the “magic” of the craft but also something more elemental about the way we engage with art and why we create it in the first place. Its angle on animation as a personalized art is inherently auteur-driven; noteworthy in a landscape where commercial anime often smooths away individual distinctiveness, and what gets then sacrificed are such significant matters as language, culture, desire and ambition, experience, dreams… I always found Chinashi’s works to pulse with a vivid sense of worldview and taste, and First Line is no exception.

What the director loves best is filling his frames with characters and letting them bounce off each other, supported by a lively, thoughtful style around them; staying character-focused is what allowed him to create beautiful episodes more about time, place, and people than plot. It’s the same drive behind his previous emotionally potent music videos full of rich, inspired imagery, as well as this beautiful portrait/dream-journal about being an animator—all without ever sacrificing accessibility.

I was captivated by this short film in particular, aside from its craft, for the sheer emotional range it encompasses in just eight minutes: bubbly, cerebral, oneiric, and melancholic in equal measure. It channels these moods with ease as it pivots on a series of classic binaries, symmetries, and cyclic repetitions—young rookie versus veteran, individual versus collaborative expression, success versus failure, and the trials and errors of the creative process.

Those structuring principles may be classic, but how they’re explored and staged is far from banal. Some artists understand how to steal the reality of props and lived-in spaces, and Chinashi is certainly among them. Within his many gifts as a director, I’m partial to the tactile expressiveness and stubborn physicality of the settings he chooses to depict, here beautifully rendered through TJ’s art direction and art design. This extends to his careful attention to body language and physical interaction within the 4:3 frame; paired with his embracing of pantomime-style acting and stylized movement, which make the most of eel’s design work and the animation it enables.

To watch the short film is to inhabit, for a brief moment, that space. That old-school anime studio with its cluttered desks buried under stacks of drawings, books, and pencils, as both visual and audio cues make us participants in the passage of time and Mito’s struggle. Its vivid sense of place almost convinces you that you’re seeing the real deal… except this never existed. The TOHO animation studio, where this short film was produced, doesn’t even have traditional desks anymore. As he revealed in the Reference Materials of First Line, China constructed this space to feel both tangible and nostalgic, like a half-remembered place. He drew on various sources, like his memories of ACTAS (the studio where he debuted as episode director during Tatsuya Yoshihara’s Long Riders) and old photos of his own cluttered desks at places like 8bit and CloverWorks.

And yet, while the setting is imaginary, the emotions are not. Beyond tapping into his own experiences and memories, China’s earlier interviews with young animators (whom he gathered through his Pixiv account) fed directly into the protagonist’s inner conflicts: the insecurities and obstacles of early-career artists, and what could drive them forward.

In the end, that may be what I love about this short film. That process turns into less of a realistic semi-autobiography and more of an imaginary amalgamation set within the anime industry. And yet, it remains a work of animation about animation, one that could only exist in this medium, driven by the emotional determinants and personal experiences that make this kind of art possible. It’s something only China could create in this particular way—and, as he’s personally expressed, only at this moment in his career.

The line between art and artist is endlessly blurred in First Line, starting with the meta-concept that this short film is a real example of the kind of art that Mito wants to make. It leans so much in that direction that the first cut that gets remade by his gruff mentor-director is actually the one of the young PA’s wonderfully exaggerated acting that appears shortly after… we’re watching First Line making itself.

This ends with the realization that the only art worth making, the kind that resonates with artists, audiences, and truly matters in our moment and culture, is not one manufactured to impress. What we seek and what matters is art that, in every line, imperfection, and mistake, remains true to itself. I think it would make for an excellent double feature if paired with last year’s Look Back, which articulated a similarly powerful message through Kiyotaka Oshiyama’s stunning achievements and vision: every line matters, every drawing counts.

Honorable mentions:

  • The Colors Within / Kimi no Iro: More on this one later!
  • Chainsaw Man: The Movie – Reze Arc: A.k.a the coolest, prettiest, scariest, sexiest, funniest, most romantic sad movie about tornado-riding sharks ever made. Kudos to Tatsuya Yoshihara & co. for the way they channeled all the powerful divergent energies of Tatsuki Fujimoto’s manga in this electrifying movie. Takuya Niinuma’s section lives rent-free in my mind.

  • Best Opening: Witch Watch OP1 (link)

There are a myriad delights contained within Megumi Ishitani‘s Witch Watch opening, which should come as no surprise coming from one of current anime’s most uniquely bewitching directors. Her visual acuity and sensitivity to space and sequentiality, light, and color are once again positively overwhelming. You can feel how her impulse to put on a show, coupled with the ability to give an audience more than they ever knew they wanted, remain perfectly intact even in short formats like openings. Within this format, Ishitani’s ability to manipulate the minutiae of her frames has even allowed for a further refinement of her aesthetic. Most interestingly, they’ve also allowed her to experiment with ways to express a love for convergent, ensemble storytelling, as seen in her previous One Piece openings; and more recently, even in that 360° insanity at the One Piece Base Shop. If only someone could find a way to release that one to the public…

This magical piece of animation concentrates and articulates her sensibilities. It resonates with devoted commitment to animated spectacle and fine pictorial detail, emphasized by an aesthetic sculpted in pure color. On a conceptual level, it demonstrates her compulsion for storyboarding/editing mechanisms that highlight connectivity and compositional precision, which allow her to encase animated worlds within a lovingly, obsessively wrought structure of her own making. Each element and movement is designed with methodical intent, servicing unique functions to either the storytelling or the spectacle, often inextricably binding the two.

The artifice is always the point with Ishitani, and this Witch Watch opening is so smart, so good, and so balanced in how it deploys her controlled language and arsenal of conceptually fun ideas. Be it inventive credit integration, appealing typography, blink-and-miss-it multi-layer gags, and even cheeky meta-nods as the characters enter a manga dimension, it all helps conjure and translate the charm and iconography of Kenta Shinohara’s manga. Whimsical at heart, sometimes it merely echoes its characters’ colorful personalities, environments, and routines.

Ishitani transparently highlights the surfaces to emphasize the meaning, feel, and narrative threads that lie just beneath them, all of which inevitably bubble to the surface (sometimes literally) in a frenzied fashion. The color work (and art direction, Hiroshi Oono needs no introduction) feels borderline miraculous, but the animation is equally surprising. Vivacious animator Masayuki Nonaka gives a rich example of how Ishitani’s control-freak aesthetic paradoxically works best when inhabited by bubbly, idiosyncratic animators-supervisors (like the beloved Soty before him).

The most ecstatic and affecting moments for me come when animators are able to simultaneously attune themselves to Ishitani’s wavelength and convey in their distinct fashions the lively, deep feelings churning under the pastel-colored surfaces and multilayered compositions. The Nonaka-led team assembled by producers Takafumi Nakame and Hidehisa Taniguchi at Bibury more than rose to that challenge. As a whole, the whole opening feels like a joyous gathering of artists eager for the chance to work with everyone’s favorite dinosaur-loving director—though the inverse is just as true. One can only hope the future holds more magical occasions like this!

  • Best Ending: Anne Shirley ED (link)

If I had a nickel for each time we got a Takashi Kojima solo-animated ending this year, I’d have three nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s pretty amazing it happened thrice. Twice within the same season, even!

The fantastic trifecta composed by his solo efforts for the Yaiba, One Piece, and Anne Shirley endings allowed us to witness three directors with three completely different approaches deploying different qualities of Kojima’s design and animation sensibilities, in accordance with their own vision; to quote what a wise artist once said, it’s 小島崇史 year.

I love them all, but the beauty and warmth of Naoko Yamada’s sequence is simply arresting.

Admittedly, my experience with the original Anne doesn’t go past hazy memories of watching early morning reruns on Italian public tv when I was a kid. Like everyone else, though, I was desperately anticipating Yamada’s opening and ending for this new iteration… and in more than one way, that feel of hazy memories is also the perfect way to describe the latter.

In true Yamada fashion, it’s a revitalizing fusion of music, mood, and movement. Speaking to Newtype Magazine (September 2025 issue), she mentioned that responding to Laura day romance’s “heart”, she pictured a gentle, distant landscape that felt like a memory slowly surfacing. Thus, she approached the ending as an act of tracing those fragments and honestly weaving them into Anne’s world, rather than illustrating the song outright. You can definitely sense that intangible feel, as Kojima’s animation has never felt this ethereal and freeform; relatedly, despite working digitally for a while now, he also drew everything on paper for this special occasion. This stands out even more in conjunction with Yamada’s own watercolors. Ah, that image of Anne’s red hair transforming into candlelight—her presence depicted as something that warms and illuminates those around her. I’m not crying, there’s just too much beauty and romance in my eyes.

Honorable mentions:

  • One Piece Ending 21 (link): Sho Matsui always showed interest in exploring colorful ideas in direction, but harnessing Kojima’s art and animation in such an evocative, affecting way demands a sharply focused vision—one that is exquisitely deliberate both in its construction of imagery and in its processing.
  • Yaiba: Samurai Legend ED2 (link): The Yoshimichi Kameda-directed Yaiba ED is just pure blobby Kojima fun. This time, that’s built on an inherently silly shift of perspective, since the ending is centered on the point of view and daily lives… not of the show’s protagonists, but of the Black Demon Army goons. The amusing detail is that the dance choreography was decided through a dance competition among the production staff, including animation producer Maiko Okada; that’s why the ED credits list “Dance cooperation: Production staff”.
  • Best Aesthetic And Animation Designs: The Colors Within / Kimi no Iro

Choosing among the 2025 contenders in this category is genuinely difficult for me; so many candidates, between the seamless cel-art world of CITY, the striking cityscapes and urban beauty of Gundam GQuuuuuux, or even the wild, composite aesthetic of New Panty & Stocking. In the end, though, I’m once again awarding a film that technically premiered in 2024, yet only reached theaters for many of us, myself included, this year. Naturally, I’ll always seize the chance to celebrate the narrative effectiveness and the fluid, intuitive aesthetic of Naoko Yamada‘s Kimi no Iro. A set of qualities which, even in the film’s most virtuosic moments, felt synced to the emotional, sensorial experiences of its characters.

Yamada’s gaze remains as intimate and focused as ever, and the inviting, subjective language and sensory richness we often find in her movies are here literalized in the central narrative premise: her protagonist, Totsuko, perceives people as colors. That’s the heart of Kimi no Iro, a blending of senses called synesthesia.

It’s a movie rooted in character, yet the style and aesthetic are heightened and ravishing; not only because of the simple advantage of its premise, but because Yamada, whose lyrical sensibility and all-consuming passion for cinema is evident in her every intoxicating frame, likes to continuously experiment with a wide range of modalities, concepts and patterns, exploring the tension between structure and spontaneity. She has clearly made the most of the opportunity of this movie, finding appropriate grammar for its every aspect (animation, compositing, art direction, and color design, plus obviously music) while working in an idiosyncratic register connecting with her oeuvre. It’s not unlike the director’s previous works in how it emphasizes light, texture, depth, and codified color design—yet more than ever, it feels like a beautiful study on synesthesia, as her ability to convey the tactility of experience easily segues into rich abstraction.

In the simple, steadfast adjustment of the camera lens, her cinema can give seemingly mundane objects or actions and interactions an almost supernatural provenance; in doing so, it can make us see and perceive like her characters would. It sounds like a lofty notion, but it’s a literal truth: enabled by a tightly connected team and constant dialogue with Yamada, Kimi no Iro’s photography ultimately seeks to translate lived atmospheres into images that feel observed and captured, rather than processed.

What enamored me the most is the depiction of Totsuko’s synesthetic condition, a striking technical achievement in its own right. The director worked closely with director of photography Yoshimitsu Tomita, alongside assistants Akiyo Yamaura and Naoki Takahashi. Through their extensive experimentation, the compositing team pursued an elusive “in-between” texture—neither literal watercolor nor oil painting—by testing real lens mechanics and filming real materials, from pigment spreading on paper to natural landscapes, then integrating their discoveries into the final image.

The color design work by Yuko Kobari (of Skip and Loafer fame) is less about assigning palettes and more about finding the right visual temperature, the most tasteful way of transporting emotion into light and color. Hues bleed subtly between characters and environments, ambient and mood-driven tones replace literal lighting, and nature seeps into faces and bodies, translating Totsuko’s perception of the world into the film’s organic vision.

Midori Shimada’s and Yuuna Murooka’s art direction grounds this sensibility in serene, contemplative spaces equally inspired by Kimi no Iro’s real life referenced setting (the Goto Islands in the Nagasaki prefecture), the sacred atmosphere of the Grand Chartreuse monastery in the French Alps (as depicted in the Into Great Silence documentary directed by Philip Gröning) and the luminous, soft interiors of Vilhelm Hammershøi’s paintings (all references hand-picked by Yamada). Meanwhile, playful prismatic textures shimmer within shadows and reflections, preserving the peculiar mix of photographic beauty and painted subjectivity that defines the movie.

The result is that Yamada’s malleability of aesthetic, tone, and technique meaningfully reflects the characters’ experiences. It draws out and externalizes them, validates the invisible with the gift of tangibility, and utilizes the artifice of animation and cinema to create character portraits that feel emotionally authentic and placed in a cohesive language, rather than a simple impression supported by narrative.

Have I mentioned that I’m also a big fan of Takashi Kojima’s work?

Following Heike Monogatari, where he started to learn how to calibrate his personal style to Yamada’s sensibilities, Kimi no Iro marks a fantastic deepening of his collaboration with her. Starting from Daisuke Richard’s initial drafts, Kojima designed its 5 central characters: Totsuko, Kimi, Rui, Grandma Shino and Sister Hiyoko. It’s a main cast defined by his soft, elegant shapes, appealing silhouettes, balanced line density, and expressive control. These qualities shape characters whose individuality never overwhelms the ensemble. By the end of the production, he’d applied that approach to over 50 characters, with various staff members contributing by coming up with ideas, backstories, names, and even personal relationships to help him define their appeal—something you can appreciate in this incredible promo art. In the end, though, it’s the complementarity of the central trio that feels like a perfect marriage of his own quirks and Yamada’s taste and tendencies.

Moreover, as the sole animation director, he was able to imprint those characters with naturalistic acting and controlled draftsmanship for the whole movie.

Honorable mention: Yaiba (Yoshimichi Kameda and Takeshi Maenami)

Yoshimichi Kameda and Takeshi Maenami’s design work in Yaiba felt very fresh; both in the way they adapted Gosho Aoyama‘s characters and in how they proved a perfect vehicle for the diversified Kanada/Obari/Kozuma-stylized exaggeration skills of its staff.

In its own odd way, I also very much loved the deliberate design/supervision anarchy on display in Mono, where various animators and supervisors embraced with savage glee any chance to play with Takuya Miyahara’s designs.

  • Non-contemporary Work Award: Pigtails – Mitsuami no Kami-sama

Watching this year’s intense and Ghibli/Miyazaki-inspired Cocoon (which you can read about on this same site’s excellent coverage) reminded me that in my plan-to-watch list I already had an animated adaptation of a Machiko Kyou manga: Pigtails (Mitsuami no Kami-sama). The short film is an affecting and powerful exploration of the emotions left in the wake of Japan’s 2011 earthquake, produced at Production I.G. by Keiko Matsushita’s team shortly after Miss Hokusai. Most importantly, it marked the directorial debut of Yoshimi Itazu, who also served as its character designer and animation supervisor.

Itazu himself explained his intention with this piece. While giving animated form to the manga’s abstract, minimalist style (and a setting inspired by Derek Jarman’s garden in Dungeness, here rendered through Hiroshi Oono’s textured art direction), he didn’t set out to address the Tohoku disaster itself. Instead, he wanted to communicate the deep emotional undercurrents of this fable as imagined by its original author, conveyed through imagery and the artifice of giving voice to everyday objects.

I don’t feel sufficiently equipped to comment on this work or the complex, inexpressible feelings it evokes through its images, sounds and structuring absences. So instead, I would simply recommend it to anyone who feels in the right frame of mind to watch such a delicate (and at times unsettling) piece of art.

  • Creator Discovery: Kyousuke Yamazaki

Admittedly, I only checked Tousouchuu: Great Mission #88 after friends advised me to do so. I initially worried I might feel a bit lost, given my experience with the show only amounted to watching a couple of its earlier episodes. As it turns out, those worries were unfounded, because director and rookie storyboarder Kyousuke Yamazaki’s vision was a welcoming one. Its evocative staging and palpable sense of atmosphere were delightful even in isolation, making for a perfectly readable and frictionless experience. While this marked the first time Yamazaki had directed his own storyboard for TV, he had previously debuted as episode director on Digimon Ghost Game, following the usual learning path for Toei directors as an assistant enshutsu. On top of that, he’d already storyboarded/directed the 6th ending and processed co-series director Kohei Kureta’s storyboard for episode 49 of Tousouchuu itself.

And what do we find within his work? Smart patterns and instinctive visual motifs, layered compositions, and use of slick transitions in key scenes that demonstrate remarkable storyboarding confidence. Throughout episode #88, Yamazaki’s direction is defined by deliberate assignments and a sense of contrast and juxtapositions expressed through specific choices of palette, framing, intentional processing, and use of diegetic elements.

Moreover, central to the episode’s emotional core are the guest characters Al and Stella—whose origins trace back to Yamazaki’s own design concepts, later refined by the original author Takeshi Okano and finalized by sub-character designer Takahiro Kojima and main designer Youichi Oonishi. The young director also asked none other than Naoki Tate to help design the delinquent characters that appear in the episode, simply because he’s a fan of his and thought it’d be a good way of channeling the veteran’s loose style. We can also appreciate the specificity Yamazaki put in this episode’s characters, settings, and props in the materials posted by the Toei Oizumi Studio Tankentai account.

As a fruitful alignment, the timing worked out such that the end of Megumi Ishitani’s stunning One Piece Fan Letter overlapped with the start of this episode’s animation schedule, and Yamazaki could also count on a group of fellow talented young Toei artists and Soty-inspired animators, including Shin Kashiwaguma. Kuma’s scene demonstrates all the vibrancy and control Yamazaki is capable of, showing at once meaningful restraint and a good instinct in relying on the simple expressive power of good drawings and character art. In general, the director appears to balance strong intent and trust in individual staff skills.

The episode’s strengths are all expressions of a single director’s statement, but effective as a result of a well-tuned collaborative effort; one that Yamazaki openly credited to the ability and generosity of the team around him. Everything that transpires from his work and own words makes me think of a director with good taste, who also cares for the opinion of people he works with. And so, despite his highly specific vision, he allows himself to be influenced in meaningful ways… pretty cool!

Since Tousouchuu, Yamazaki has also recently appeared on Digimon Beatbreak #04. Once again, a somewhat limited production, yet in its pivotal moments, I found the same magic; the sense of palpable atmosphere and use of visual motifs to enrich character dynamics, plus some memorable imagery we can appreciate in Yamazaki’s storyboard and enshutsu corrections. Looking forward to his future endeavors!

Ken 🍁 Yamamoto

Animator, Storyboarder, Director, Aikatsu Respecter, Purveyor Of The Greatest Film About Horses Ever Made, A Leaf [Twitter] [Sakugabooru Tag]
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  • Best Episode: Pokétoon: Okori no Okorizaru Kansatsu Nikki (Angry Primeape Observation Diary), Ruri Rocks #09

As for Angry Primeape Observation Diary, [Seishiro] Nagaya is an absolute genius. We’ve already entered the era where Naoko Yamada and Nagaya are the epitome of anime directors. The quality coming out of all the departments is astounding.

And when it comes to Ruri Rocks #09, I know I’m biased, but Miton-chan’s so good. My part didn’t get a lot of corrections, perhaps out of politeness, but I wish it would have gotten ruthlessly redrawn.

  • Best Show: Okitsura, Everyday Host, Ishura S2, A Wild Last Boss Appeared!, Once Upon a Witch’s Death

The obvious picks, duh.

The very start of Okitsura #01 has cicada cries that are definitely not Okinawan, which bugged me a lot. But aside from that, it’s pure fun throughout. The best at making anime in Japan. Higa’s dance at the end of the opening is so cute and good that I framestepped through anime for the first time in years.

I can’t imagine there’s anyone who likes anime that doesn’t know about Everyday Host. That said, there’s a surprising number of so-called “sakuga enthusiasts” who dismiss works of anime because of their art style and skip anything that’s not action anime, so please watch it. It looks great.

Ishura‘s director, [Yuki] Ogawa, is a genius no matter what material you give him. He makes me feel like Yamcha watching Goku. It’s clear when you watch A Wild Last Boss Appeared, but its direction is so strong.

Special mention to Once Upon a Witch’s Death. Please just watch it. I’m so happy this series exists, as someone who has watched director [Atsushi] Nigorikawa‘s Castle Town Dandelion #05 countless times. You’ll laugh; you’ll cry. The One Piece of light novel adaptations.

  • Best Movie: Legend of Hei II, Mononoke the Movie: The Ashes of Rage

Legend of Hei II features a simple script coated with a layer of incredible animation, which makes me very happy. A defining feature of the series is that it’s not just the action scenes that get all the attention; from start to finish, everything is moving. As a result, it feels more like you’re watching a live-action movie than anime. And on top of that, it’s packed to the brim with charm from an animation standpoint.

As for Mononoke the Movie: The Ashes of Rage—absolutely incredible. I thought describing something as having “psychedelic visuals” was stupid, but the expression was coined for movies like this.

  • Best Opening: I’ve Been Killing Slimes for 300 Years and Maxed Out My Level S2 OP (link), The Fated Magical Princess: Who Made Me a Princess OP (link), Bogus Skill <<Fruitmaster>> ~About that time I became able to eat unlimited numbers of Skill Fruits (that kill you)~ OP (link), Shoushimin Season 2 OP (link), Witch Watch OP1 (link), Watanare / There’s No Freaking Way I’ll be Your Lover! Unless… OP (link), The Water Magician OP (link), Aharen-san wa Hakarenai S2 OP (link)
    • I’ve Been Killing Slimes for 300 Years and Maxed Out My Level S2 OP: It’s fun. What else do you need? The pre-chorus and the last part look great in every way. The ideal commercial animation. To hell with battle action sakuga. It’s anime like these where animating on 1s can truly shine.
    • The Fated Magical Princess: Who Made Me a Princess OP: Beautiful. This goes for the show itself as well, but you can really tell how thorough the main staff must be with their checks. I’m very lazy about that, so I should learn from them.
    • Bogus Skill <<Fruitmaster>> ~About that time I became able to eat unlimited numbers of Skill Fruits (that kill you)~ OP: The chorus is so pleasing.
    • Shoushimin Season 2 OP: The sheer amount of effort is tied to how satisfying it is.
    • Witch Watch OP: See above.
    • The Water Magician OP: [Shogo] Teramoto is turning into the next Shingo Yamashita…
    • Aharen-san wa Hakarenai S2 OP: The first verse is so cute.
    • Watanare / There’s No Freaking Way I’ll be Your Lover! Unless… OP: Cute, fun, and well-drawn. Everything that an anime needs to be.

  • Best Aesthetic: Watanare / There’s No Freaking Way I’ll be Your Lover! Unless…, Hyakuemu / 100 Meters

For Watanare, the animation designs, colors, and backgrounds are all great. I couldn’t be happier.

And Hyakuemu? Beautiful.

  • Best Animation Designs: May I Ask for One Final Thing (Eriko Haga), A Wild Last Boss Appeared! (Maiko Ebisawa)

Eriko Haga‘s work in May I Ask for One Final Thing? is just gorgeous. Meanwhile, A Wild Last Boss Appeared! has such good drawings. I love the stills in the ED.

  • Non-contemporary Work Award: Turn A Gundam

Only uncultured dumbasses compare works of art to decide which one is better. On the other hand, I don’t think I’ll ever come across any other anime that leaves a greater impact on me than Turn A Gundam.

I’m really blown away by how much Shogo Teramoto has improved since the time I asked him to do key animation on the 86: Eighty-Six OP2. The animators in their twenties are really good, and I can rest easy knowing that there’s no place for half-baked losers like me. This year makes me think that the future of anime is bright.

chi

Kyoto scholar, handwriting expert [Twitter] [Bluesky]
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  • Best Episode: CITY: The Animation #05, Apocalypse Hotel #11

I could be here all day highlighting every episode of CITY: The Animation. I strongly considered focusing on the musical finale that’s brimming with whimsicality, celebrating the show’s entire ethos. But if we’re being real, the crowning achievement that I would want to bring to the forefront as my fave has to be Minoru Ota’s episode #05. Of course, it’s not as if he effortlessly earned it. Ota has always been the ambitious type, so in a way, it makes sense that he parsed the concept behind the episode in such a ridiculous way that he struggled with conceptualising it. Wouldn’t have gotten the achievement if he wasn’t capable of handling it, though!

The fact that Taichi Ishidate himself said they do not want to do anything like that ever again emphasises how much CITY #05 is a truly generational, tricky episode to create. It’s no exaggeration to call it one of the most imaginative ways to adapt an entire manga volume in a single episode, capturing the essence of the series’ interconnected nature along the way. What the quirky cast are up to was always something you were meant to be curious about, but this episode takes it to the next level.

Split-screening becomes an overwhelming yet exciting vehicle for storytelling pushes, in a way I just hadn’t seen before. A herculean effort by Ota, who chose to storyboard each plot thread individually to avoid losing track of them all. That utilitarian side of it is only one side of the coin, of course, since the way he organically framed everything in real time through shifting panels also makes the watching experience more entertaining. It’s nothing short of remarkable, especially once they all intertwine at the episode’s stunning climax. The close collaboration with original author Keiichi Arawi even allowed the inclusion of a thematically appropriate original ending.

There’s an inherent charm to rewatching this episode as well; something the voice cast themselves encouraged, as there are countless new details to spot and appreciate. It’s a level of active engagement that I found incredibly fun and can only respect. The diverse stylisation on display was innovative, and it allowed me to appreciate (alongside the rest of the production) how they shine light on interesting skillsets of not just young talent, but veteran staff too. Not to mention, granting the studio’s animation ace ample time to take on an incredible amount of work. In my eyes, this is the most creative episode of the year, and is forever cemented as an all-timer.

​My next pick for this year is something on the quieter side. Apocalypse Hotel #11 is a masterclass in mostly silent storytelling and charming non-verbal communication—something you could only achieve if your art direction and setting design are fundamentally strong to begin with, which is so true of ApoHotel that it got me to purchase its production books. Yachiyo, even when faced with her own mortality for the first time, ironically feels revitalised, as she takes solace in a peaceful stroll.

Part of the appeal of ApoHotel’s post-apocalyptic world is that it carries an odd beauty in seeing nature’s reclamation of Earth. Despite the believably worn & torn cityscapes, ruins of humanity now carry an air of serenity. The whole mood is a tastefully bittersweet, but life-affirming accumulation of Yachiyo’s growth, to the point that her taking action outside of her programming is enough to bring me to tears. And for that, it is the most emotionally affecting episode of the year for me.

Honorable mentions:

    • Every other episode of CITY: Yes, I’m cheating once again, but it’s all peak I’m afraid.
    • Takopi’s Original Sin #04: Toya Oshima’s Takopi episode features the most prominent usage of background animation as an immersive tool for its storytelling—it externalises the mental state of Naoki in such an effective way.
    • Yaiba #06: Takeshi Maenami seriously put together a once-in-a-lifetime solo effort with this one. He has been receiving praise for a while now, but his animation is always exhilarating to see. Even among Kanada-school animators, his work carries so much physicality to it, yet it maintains a loose appeal to it that makes his smeared shapes a joy to look at. Naturally filled with his dynamic and way-too-cool poses, he imbued the villain with insane amounts of charisma. The physical depth and volume carried from Yuji Tokuno’s storyboard were also aspects that kept me excited.
    • Star Wars Visions Volume 3 – BLACK: Being a fan of Shinya Ohira’s previous extravagant efforts, such as Wanwa the Doggy and Asura’s Wrath’s #11.5, this was everything I expected it to be in the best way possible. It’s raw, overpowering, and visceral—which is probably the most apt word to describe the characteristics of Ohira’s expressionistic style.
  • Best Show, Aesthetic, And Animation Designs: CITY: The Animation

Commercial animation is a fundamentally collaborative process, with many parts of the pipeline being strongly interlinked in the result, so we ought to appreciate the works that turn that hodgepodge into one whole canvas. Some works reach a higher level of cohesiveness than others, but CITY: The Animation feels like an aberration even among the most unified ones. I find it to be one perfect whole, to the point it felt wrong to separate individual visual categories for these awards. The designs and aesthetics are so intrinsically linked, much like the show itself, that I don’t feel comfortable treating them as separate. Each part really clicks with one another—it’s no surprise that not even the staff could tell what is cel and what isn’t!

To achieve that holistic greatness, Taichi Ishidate scouted two young stars who turned out to be instrumental: Tamami Tokuyama and Shiori Yamasaki. The former exhibited an incredible (and amusing) drive to understand Arawi-ish cartoon logic. Meanwhile, the latter eventually settled on a faithful yet fresh recreation of the lively world that the colourful cast inhabit; though again, it’s worth stressing that the appeal of these aspects is how they eventually blend into one seamless world.

The choices behind the design work invite comparisons to its sibling series Nichijou, which strayed further away from Arawi’s aesthetic. Not that this made it worse, of course; the late Futoshi Nishiya’s interpretation of the designs is a fascinating combination of his personal style and Arawi’s cartoony proportions. The anatomical mastery is a highlight of his work, but don’t let that fool you into thinking it erases all cartoony traits. Nishiya still manages to emphasise those long, rectangular, and cylindrical, noodle-like limbs, with many other supervisors on the team understanding the assignment. Not to talk of the inclusion of his controlled and detailed fabric folds, they become truly unique designs—an eclectic mix between cartoon and realism, achieved so brilliantly that it still gets me down that he’s no longer with us.

So, instead of trying to match a late master and keeping in mind the shifting priorities, Tokuyama’s focus on emphasising Arawi’s style is beautifully realised. The designs are no longer geared to partially replicate realism, but much more towards cartooning through the geometrical shapes that the characters are broken into. Shading has been omitted to lower the visual density, and you can bet that if a forearm or calf was a bit too organic, it was gonna be corrected by her. This understanding of Arawi’s work is something she excelled at, and through her guidance, so did the rest of the team by the end of the project. Seeing as the movement itself consistently operated under cartoon animation’s lexicon, the posing in Tokuyama’s design sheets provided an excellent foundation.

Meanwhile, Shiori Yamasaki’s confident approach was a huge success. The environments pop with exuberance and vibrancy. Because of their expressive range in both their palette and presentation, they could be dialled in to be inviting and cozy, or at an instant switch to portray abstract textures and shapes during absurd moments. In that way, they truly embody the playfulness and fun that Ishidate wanted to underline. Naturally, veteran colour designer Kana Miyata’s experience also helped a lot. Achieving such a holistic yet clear look would be tricky if the character layers and backgrounds shared the same palette, so each cut needed clinical choices to avoid colours clashing. Guiding the viewer’s eye is important!

Easy as it is for fans to demand faithful recreations of their favourite source material’s visuals, delivering on that front is neither simple nor the real goal. Something like CITY isn’t great just because it looks similar to Arawi’s world—for starters, it’s far from a carbon copy. A ton of thought and (competitive) effort went into trying to convey the atmosphere. To achieve that in a different medium, they had to settle on deviations like colours that are even more pastel than Arawi’s own, as well as bold character linework that adds a subtle separation from the thinner ones of the backgrounds. This aspect in particular was born from collaboration between these two young stars; the clean look provides a remarkable level of clarity and flatness, allowing even 3D backgrounds to be integrated as another imperceptible piece of its cel-like look. It really allows viewers to glaze over and appreciate every detail without making things visually busy.

In this regard, I loved their simple application of atmospheric perspective—having further details in the background fade to lighter colours to emphasise distance is a lovely detail for immersive effect! The approach to replicating digital effects through the drawings themselves also underlines the commitment to recreating the world in a way that makes sense for animation, and for Ishidate’s goals as a mentor. It was an explicit goal of this to make animators draw nearly everything on screen, as pushback for the gradual loss of skill we’re seeing in an industry where the supposed convenience of digital tools is limiting younger generations’ width of expression. This embodies what KyoAni is all about: constantly training the next generation. A lot of trial and error was done to create this beautiful, unique world of seamless wonder.

And speaking of Ishidate, his main goal was plain and simple: to create something fun and comfortable. This core thesis of CITY is realised not just thematically, but also right down to the production. It’s an exercise involving the staff members as well, be it expanding upon skits or adding in their own ingenious ideas. Ishidate had wanted to direct CITY for a while, but it really gets recontextualised with his emphasis on wanting to cheer up the studio itself. The downer atmosphere he felt had affected the world during these troublesome times is something he feared could encroach on the vibes of the studio. By making a show like this, in such a free way, and then broadcasting it during summery Sundays, CITY let us relax within this fun world; a brief respite before the working week starts and you gotta return to the dreaded office, which might not solve everything but is certainly better than nothing!

The adaptation’s transformative nature is also a result of careful restructuring of the material with Arawi himself. For as much as was changed, their shared efforts retained what matters most: the world and the vibes associated with it. I appreciate that the team was not concerned with inefficiently cramming episodes with many chapters, as they understood the focus should be on that atmosphere. That’s why events flow as naturally as they do, why the show is such a comfy delight to sit through. It’s a spirit extending from Ishidate’s desire to kindle your sense of wonder through CITY’s interconnected, wacky scenarios. There’s a real, tangible sense of place created here, born from their spontaneity. To borrow Tim Rogers’ parlance, CITY: The Animation is extremely hangoutable.

Within KyoAni productions, you can usually feel the guiding animation philosophy they’ve formulated to match the nature of each project; be it the contemplative mood pierced by kyudo’s solemn dynamism in Tsurune, or the precise dazzling (literally and figuratively) performances of Eupho, their tightly narrative-focused series feel well-considered in the translation to animation. And yet, I feel like CITY has cemented itself as a particularly brilliant achievement in that regard. It deeply understands itself and helps you understand it too.

When you factor in the daunting workload stemming from the varying, increasing run time of each episode, the increased difficulty for the douga team, or the constantly challenging key animation, it becomes clear that they went all-out in a way that was only barely possible through one cours. It makes CITY feel like a lightning-in-a-bottle type of show, which not even its creators could replicate so easily. In the long run, I hope it also becomes the type of show that garners the curiosity of (aspiring) artists, continually inspiring people.

Honorable mention (best show): Apocalypse Hotel, The Summer Hikaru Died

Personally, the most I’ve loved an original anime since Do It Yourself!!. Presenting personal growth for androids/robots in a post-apocalyptic setting is a relatively common scenario within the genre, but ApoHotel still manages to feel fresh. It spins that concept in episodic vignettes, framing Yachiyo’s development through the exploration of the setting and her interactions with other extra-terrestrial life forms; humanisation without human interaction adds such a unique touch! I found myself constantly impressed by how many layers it was able to add onto its worldbuilding because of this, and the structuring of her endearing character growth around it.

At its core, ApoHotel is a very lighthearted show; it’s funny as hell and not afraid to try and make you laugh, even when it creates tonal whiplash at times. Let me be clear: I wouldn’t have it any other way. This commitment to that odd mix gives it such a unique identity among other pathos of time works. Something I’ve repeatedly said regarding my favourite anime, Ojamajo Doremi, happens to apply here too: I laughed, I cried, and had a lot of fun with it—Apocalypse Hotel is basically as good as anime gets. A wonderfully crafted show that intertwines comedy and melancholy, which will resonate within me for a long time.

The Summer Hikaru Died, on the other hand, is one of the best horror anime… in God knows how long. It’s not just thanks to the genuinely nightmarish imagery, but also thanks to the way it ties everything together through its bewitching setting, as well as how it synthesises that with the growth and experiences of Yoshiki. The “monster” within metaphor has always been a compelling way of telling queer narratives, but HikaNatsu’s navigation of that idea within its rural scenario was very compelling. The struggle of coming to terms with your hidden sexuality, the asphyxiating claustrophobia of an environment where everyone knows each other, the bizarre supernatural experiences, not being unable to even process your own grief properly… It’s all entangled together in such an unsettling, sprawling way as Yoshiki goes through a whirlpool of cathartic emotions. It was incredibly impactful on me, and now I’m highly anticipating the second half!

Honorable mention (best animation designs): Takopi’s Original Sin (Keita Nagahara)

Keita Nagahara’s interpretation of Taizan 5’s artwork was another thoughtful translation into animation, featuring intricate yet very shape-conscious design work that is characterised by the tactility of the hair and fabric. The tangible pieces of clothing folds were an eye-catching trait throughout the show, but also a fantastic tool to represent mental states of how some of these characters’ lives are lived, especially when believably dishevelled and tardy.

Honorable mention (best aesthetic): Apocalypse Hotel

Finally, it wouldn’t be right to still not give another shout-out to Apocalypse Hotel for its brilliant, cohesive look either, as I have alluded to earlier. Paired with such atmospheric and lavish compositing too, the serene and quiet beauty of the post-apocalyptic world carries an elegance with it that makes you want to explore in its peaceful warmth; yes, much like Yachiyo did in episode #11.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get the chance to watch many new animated films at all in 2025. 100 Meters was one of my most anticipated projects, as the focus of the film is targeted at me as a runner. In place of that, the release that strung my heart the most and earned some tears was Cocoon.

I have not yet read the manga, but the film managed to land a meaningful impact on me despite the limited runtime, and I was surprised at how effective its characterisation was. Even as a first-time watcher, I appreciate that the narrative is not afraid of being critical of Imperial Japan even beyond the premise of being conscripted against their own will; the portrayal of Okinawans as second-class citizens that they wouldn’t think twice of discarding really struck me. That, in a way, makes the silkworm harvesting metaphor more haunting—living only for what you offer to be taken away, then being left to die, as seen through many wartime scenes that were hard to sit through.

The most shocking part of the overall project, though, is what it achieved as a Sasayuri animator training effort supervised by Hitomi Tateno. The movie came together thanks to many young faces, which is frankly insane given the level of Ghibli-adjacent mannerisms they achieved—something Kevin has covered well in detail already. The tension Yukimatsu Ina was able to build by evoking a looming threat, especially when paired with the harrowing ambience of Kensuke Ushio’s score, consistently had me on the edge of my seat. Ina opting to stylise the blood into a flurry of petals was also as poignant as it was effective. Even if it wasn’t explicit as its manga counterpart, there’s still just something deeply heartbreaking and horrific about this way to abstract it, considering this story is from the viewpoint of kids.

Cocoon is both an interesting and incredible achievement, and I’m looking forward to Sasayuri getting more opportunities like this in the future.

  • Best Opening: Anne Shirley OP (link), CITY: The Animation OP (link)

Honestly, I’m not a huge fan of the approach they took for this readaptation of Anne Shirley’s story—especially the more brisk pacing—but I would be lying if I claimed that its charm didn’t capture me regardless. Once again, I was strongly reminded of why the late Isao Takahata’s anime resonated so strongly with me in the first place; a version that, unsurprisingly, I vastly prefer because of the measured depiction of her growth and presentation elevated by the iconic and lush greenery of traditional backgrounds. In that regard, though, imagine my surprise to hear that Naoko Yamada would be directing both the OP and ED for a long-standing fave of mine.

Yamada’s depiction of Anne’s growth is endearing, but beyond the cute surface, it expertly captures the essence of her imaginative worldview that makes us all adore Anne. The opening invites us to peek into a pivotal part of her childhood, but it does so in a stress-free way. Whimsical acting while skipping about her daily life, as the instantly familiar telephoto compositions share tidbits of the joyful life she leads. Her magical magnetism charms the bystanders and, as viewers, we too are swept up by Anne’s charm. It goes without saying, too, that Yamada’s distinct floriography is a natural fit to express that fantastical outlook.

The last segment is framed around her older self, by this point reminiscing on these cherished memories. It’s heartwarming with a tinge of nostalgia, rather than the preceding childish joy. However, above all else, I adore how Yamada bridges together those distinct parts through the middle section of the opening. Much like her Tamako Market intro, there’s a sense of community these cuts carry through her interactions with all the residents of Prince Edward Island, as Anne spreads her infectious joy with such characterful acting. All in all, it’s a lovely recount of who Anne Shirley is, and I couldn’t be happier that Yamada had the chance to express one of my favourite characters ever.

Shoushimin S2’s opening, on the other hand, is firing (pun intended) on all cylinders with its visual onslaught of novel ideas and astute storytelling. The diverse presentation it boasts ensures that you never know which mixed media technique it will surprise you with cut after cut; and speaking of which, there sure are a lot of them! Apart from the curious artistry, many of those shots hide narrative beats and hints for the mysteries throughout the second season. It makes me wonder what the brainstorming sessions were like, because the result simply rules hard. This is easily the coolest thing Kyouhei Ishiguro has ever put out.

  • Best Ending: Anne Shirley ED (link), CITY: The Animation ED (link)

Carrying on with the core tag team effort from the opening, Anne Shirley’s ending deploys Takashi Kojima in a breathtaking dive into the setting of Green Gables itself. It sports an incredibly evocative style, mainly in greyscale with minor accents of colour—lovingly watercoloured by one Naoko Yamada. The lighting effects present a layer of warmth that merges with Kojima’s looser and sketchier approach to the drawings, evoking a cozy, dreamy haziness of how life itself revolves around Anne. Oh, and naturally, that final cut seamlessly transitioning from her hair to the endearing light that illuminates her surroundings made me cry. Thank you, Yamada…

Additionally, CITY’s super cute ED was a pleasant surprise from the get-go because it allowed that job to fall onto personnel from a different department than the norm. In earlier magazine interviews, Taichi Ishidate had alluded that background artist and now ending director Shiori Yamasaki has what we may refer to as enshutsu brainworms. With that in mind, it’s no surprise that she put a lot of effort into creating something so interesting and fresh. It’s a charming recreation of claymation with 3DCG that also boasts a holistic marriage with real materials they prepared—this fun and cutesy integration won me over pretty easily!

If anything, though, it’s worth highlighting that this ending once again highlights the show’s inter-department experimentation. Tatsuki Kase was in charge as the 3DCG director, a role that this time held and entirely different weight than usual, so he deserves a lot of credit too. He’s also living to the promise we saw in side projects like Maidragon’s Minidora opening, which he modelled! This ending is a unique effort for the studio, and I can only hope they keep giving more opportunities like this in the future. Given how it worked out in CITY, it’s clear that it’s worth doing so.

  • Non-contemporary Work Award: Nijiiro Hotaru / Rainbow Fireflies

In the early to mid stages of the year, I revisited so many works I loved in the past that I had a hard time choosing. K-ON!, for example, was a delightful time yet again; every rewatch allows me to appreciate its technical aspects more, like the way Yukiko Horiguchi’s supervision during her apex still prioritised looseness over solidity. And how about Tomohiro Furukawa’s enchanting Revue Starlight The Movie, which somehow manages to one-up itself with each meticulously crafted set-piece, one after another. Noein, especially, was a unique treat. I gotta give a ton of credit for framing a coming-of-age drama centered on valuing human relations around (admittedly very confusing) concepts of quantum physics. However, in the end, it was Nijiiro Hotaru’s summer nostalgia that won me over the most.

As someone with a weak spot for works that strongly evoke that precise feeling, especially when located in rural Japan. It felt like a movie tailor-made for me, as Only Yesterday is one of the most formative films to my tastes. If I had to quickly summarize its appeal, I might say that Nijiiro Hotaru feels like a fantastical Boku no Natsuyasumi. Its focus on simply enjoying the present but also bracing for the inevitability that this delightful summer would pass was touching to me. The strongest resonance, though, I found in the way it brings its themes together through the recurring motif of the ephemeral nature of fireflies. That struck me as a framing of living with grief.

Hisashi Mori’s designs for this film are the most uniquely cute animation designs, something no one has ever matched since. The small, stylised eyes are adorable, and the forms themselves are organically loose. Coupled with the emphasis placed on curvature in the linework, gives the animation such a gestural feeling. It’s honestly crazy how good those designs are!

I think that, partially, what draws me to Nijiiro Hotaru is that I have a fond appreciation for earlier Toei works. Their early-late ‘00 projects were my gateway into proactively exploring anime creators, so seeing a project that is somewhat of a final swan song for such projects was emotional in and of itself. Regardless of what exactly triggered my nostalgia so perfectly, I’m glad I experienced this gem of a film, and everyone else should too.

I have already highlighted him in my praise for Cocoon, but despite not having experience directing beforehand, Yukimitsu Ina displayed a level of skill and proficiency you wouldn’t expect from a newcomer; especially not when the goal involves emulating an animation philosophy that is increasingly further back in the past. He’s someone I’m definitely going to keep my eye on in the future, as a young talent with what I can only assume are valuable connections, given the projects he’s had the opportunity to work on.

Last year, I highlighted a rising star from KyoAni’s Osaka branch who still continued to surpass expectations with her work in CITY: The Animation this year. Swerving to the enshutsu side this time, I found a new appreciation for Ryo Miyagi. I had, of course, been well aware of him due to his animation ability, but CITY revealed a whole new side of him; credit to the show, though it’s worth noting that this was his storyboarding debut in the first place.

​Because of that, Eupho S3 didn’t give us much of a meaningful look into Miyagi’s style, but his contribution to CITY was stellar. I think it’s quite telling that, despite him being a newbie director, Ishidate entrusted him with the episodes that featured the most interconnected craze, barring the madness of #05. It speaks volumes about his close mentorship and the potential he acknowledged in Miyagi. Given material that would be very tricky to organically weave together, Miyagi boldly pushed through and did just that, showing an impressive range of ideas as a budding storyteller. This makes me excited for his contributions to DenMoku—doubly so, because the series director is kind of a madman too.

eichiwai / Hayato Kunisada

Production Desk Aiming For Animation Producer at Cygames Pictures, ascended sakuga otaku [Twitter]
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  • Best Episode: Yaiba: Samurai Legend #06

The best episode of the year has to go to Yaiba #06. Yuji Tokuno is the storyboarder/episode director, and Takeshi Maenami, the animation director/key animator. Saki Takahashi, who now works as an animator, was the production assistant. Thanks to them, everything about this episode oozes exceptional quality,  from its direction to the animation.

In recent years, there have been a lot of anime that lean heavily toward matching the animation designs. For Yaiba: Samurai Legend, the chief animation director Yoshimichi Kameda is only there to maintain the quality, but the animation directors are more or less left to their own devices, and each episode maximizes its expressive ability in its own way.

At an Animestyle event, they talked about how Maenami in particular was an indispensable member, with Kameda inviting him onto the Yaiba anime right as production talks first began. Throughout all of episode #06, you can see animation with Maenami’s clear traits, as well as Yaiba, Sayaka, and Mr. Bat drawn in his distinct art style.

In addition, even for solo key animation episodes, there are often times when you see 2nd key animators brought onto the production for scheduling reasons. But despite being a battle episode featuring labor-intensive action, Maenami manages all the key animation by himself, a feat that speaks to his marvelous dedication as an animator.

We must also not forget Yuji Tokuno’s role here, as he did the storyboards and episode direction at Maenami’s request. Tokuno was the one who created a production environment that allowed Maenami’s animation to thrive, and successfully coordinated all of the departments. I’ll be keeping a close eye on what the two of them work on, as representative members of the next generation of creators.

  • Best Show: My Dress-Up Darling S2

The long-awaited season 2, with Sho Someno as animation producer and Shota Umehara as production desk. This is the type of team you need to maintain an exceptional baseline across the board; high-quality scriptwriting and visuals, including backgrounds, 2D prop work, and live-action footage. Throughout the season, the animation quality never drops, remaining faithful to Kazumasa Ishida‘s character designs until the last episode. You can feel the thought they put into adapting the manga into anime. Speaking as a production assistant, even when you want every episode of a series to be well-made, it’s a reality of anime production that some episodes may end up falling short. However, I didn’t get that impression from a single episode of Dress-Up Darling season 2.

You also have the opening, a Kerorira solo key animation effort, boarded to showcase his art style to begin with. Can’t forget about the ending by Studio Lico members either, with Vivinos as unit director, Callnong as assistant unit director/2nd key animator, and Qmeng as key animator. It made me realize how wide-reaching Shota Umehara’s animation radar really is. From top to bottom, it’s all packed with cuteness, and you can tell that the creators were passionate about portraying the characters in animation the best they could.

  • Best Movie: The Obsessed / Toritsukare Otoko

In a 2025 with blockbuster hits such as Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba – The Movie: Infinite Castle and Chainsaw Man – The Movie: Reze Arc, I’d like to nominate Toritsukare Otoko, which slowly gained viewers through word of mouth online and social media, as the best movie of the year.

Based on a short story by Shinji Ishii, with Masatsugu Arakawa as character designer/visual director and Wataru Takahashi as director, it’s a film with extremely impressive animation direction. The main character is an obsessive man with his quirks, which are thoroughly reflected in his depiction. I think you can really appreciate the movie when you watch it with the fact that it’s an animated musical work in mind, and understand the decisions that went into the visuals.

On the topic of animation, films as of late have a tendency to rely on 3D guidelines and CGi, but practically everything here is 2D animation. When you have theatrical standards, that’s a difficult stunt to pull off. Of note is the scene in which the Twist Boss is introduced, where the car is hand-animated. Japanese animation will often resort to 3DCG in places like these, with production costs in mind, so seeing that really impressed upon me the passion that went into the work.

  • Best Opening: Witch Watch OP1 (link)

Storyboards/unit direction by Megumi Ishitani.

Masayuki Nonaka as animation director.

Hidehisa Taniguchi and Takafumi Nakame as production assistants.

Odashi, Tomoyo Kamoi, Toshiyuki Sato, Tetsuya Takeuchi, Ayaka Tsuji, Ayako Hata, Mayuko Kamitori, and so on in key animation duties.

In summary, this is an opening with a star-studded list of animators that’s only made possible by individuals as well-connected as Nakame, who used to be part of Studio Chizu. Ishitani does a lot of work on Toei productions, so being able to see her on storyboards and unit direction in a different environment, if only for a short sequence, is a treat.

The main story of the manga is well-incorporated into the opening, and it’s a fun piece of animation with lots of little nods for fans of the original. Even for OPs, you often see multiple people on compositing. Jumi Lee tackles it solo here, which is why the compositing for the opening is able to assemble all of the pieces from the different departments into harmonious visuals.

  • Best Aesthetic: Ruri Rocks

Director Shingo Fujii‘s Ruri Rocks thoughtfully incorporates the work from every department into the animation, leading to a series with a very high level of polish as a product. The show has a lot of scenes where the characters go searching for minerals in rivers. Having them in the water creates lots of annoying work, such as processing the highlights formed where the characters meet the water, but all of these details are accounted for. And for the backgrounds, all the locales are faithfully represented while still being reusable. Additionally, when the characters give detailed explanations of minerals, they’re recreated in animation to look like the real thing; an achievement that I think owes a lot to cluseller, who were in charge of the mineral designs. Finally, everyone on the compositing team, starting with Takuya Ogata, transformed all of these individual parts into something gorgeous. They truly achieved an on-screen aesthetic that reaches a high level throughout the entire series.

  • Best Animation Designs: Yano-kun’s Ordinary Days (Toshihisa Kaiya)

I know it’s an October show and thus a late entry, but even compared to other Ajia-do productions, I find it to be a series crafted with care.

Toshihisa Kaiya was in charge of the character designs, and he takes the realistic touch of the original art style and adapts it for animation while retaining a similar look. Also, an increasing number of anime lately try to make characters pop out on screen by doing things like adding highlights to the hair, but Yano-kun’s Ordinary Days eschews highlights for its designs, and combined with its restrained color palette, it’s an anime that is very easy on the eyes.

  • Non-contemporary Work Award: Yuki Yuna is a Hero Series (Yuki Yuna is a Hero, Yuki Yuna is a Hero: The Washio Sumi Chapter, Yuki Yuna is a Hero: Hero Chapter, Yuki Yuna is a Hero: The Great Mankai Chapter)

As of now, one of my favorite series.

The first season, Yuki Yuna is a Hero, was a 2014 production, making it 11 years old by now. With its unconventional worldbuilding and the keywords of “Hero“, “Shinju“, and “Taisha“, the show caught my attention as I watched to see what fates awaited the characters. Season one also marks Takahiro Sakai‘s very first time doing animation character designs. Possibly due to schedule issues, the initial season doesn’t feature as many character corrections by Sakai as the others; from reading the visual fan books, it seems that The Washio Sumi Chapter was originally produced as theatrical works as well. The series digs deep into the characters, the drama, and the world, and it’s gut-wrenching seeing the main characters confront their emotions as they bear the pain of fighting as heroes and paying the price of using Mankai.

The series finally gives you room to breathe in Hero Chapter, but there are also lots of other works in the franchise. The light novels feature stories from many heroes’ perspectives, and Hanayui no Kirameki, which was originally a mobile game, has been ported to consoles, allowing you to learn the backgrounds of all these different heroes. And so it was this year that I came to the renewed realization of how enjoyable the Yuki Yuna series is. Like I said, the series has somehow already been around for over a decade, but if possible, it’s an IP I’d like to see develop further in the future.

  • Creator Discovery: Hirokazu Kojima (more like a rediscovery, really!) (Sakugabooru tag)

When hearing the name Hirokazu Kojima, many sakuga fans probably remember him as the character designer and animation director for Shoka. Personally, in the 2000s, I watched him with my impression of his flamboyant animation on Ufotable and Gainax works in mind. Later in the 2010s, we saw him do more solo KA for OP/EDs as well as promo artwork at A-1 Pictures. By the time the 2020s hit, we saw another increase in his name showing up on TV anime credits, including a design role on the More than a Married Couple, But Not Lovers ED, and the realistic, yet comical animation on Oniichan wa Oshimai! which felt like the kind of sequence only Kojima could do.

And here comes 2025, when he had three works of wildly varying art style: Lazarus, Watanare (CD only), and ChaO, an impressive amount of work by any measure. ChaO in particular was a long-term feature-length production, yet he handled the character designs, chief animation direction, and a fair amount of key animation. For the upcoming year and onward, I’ll be keeping an eye on Hirokazu Kojima, a.k.a. kojikoji, kojipero!

Omar

Believes Love Cobra is real (that’s less insane now) [Twitter]
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  • Best Show: Apocalypse Hotel

Apocalypse Hotel is my show of the year for simple reasons: it’s a combination of great visuals, animation, and a conclusive, greatly executed narrative. The charm begins with Natsuki Yokoyama’s lovely renderings of designs such as Yachiyo, the Tanukians, and especially Ponko, whom we see grow from a child to an adult; by their side, other funny-looking aliens come and go as the show progresses. Alongside those, one of the strongest visual aspects of the show was the art direction led by Kouhei Honda, whom I consider to be one of the best current art directors for TV anime. He depicted the decaying urban structures with incredible detail, while beautifully capturing how nature has been overtaking the cities.

I would add that the animation excels in fashions that went unnoticed by many. The way Yachiyo is animated shows off her non-human nature in fun ways (e.g., with the occasional, deliberate choppy motion), while also allowing more traditional emotional expressiveness to seep out from her mostly robotic facial expressions. That appeal extends to the 3D animation of the other robots, which is lively thanks to the work led by 3D director Yoshinori Nakano. Of course, all of this was orchestrated by director Kana Shundou, who had a clear vision for how the world of Apocalypse Hotel should move and look.

On the narrative side, this show introduces a lot of interesting themes related to humanity and life itself. There are also constant and sudden shifts between comedic, dramatic, and contemplative tones, but Shundou’s direction somehow keeps everything well balanced. Its unorthodox mix allows it to build a strong, unique identity within a genre that some all-time greats have dipped their toes into; a massive achievement considering that this is the first work that Shundou directs on her own, so all the more props to her.

But beyond this pleasant surface, what exactly is this show that made it my favourite? Let me warn you that making its case will involve some spoilers for the next couple of paragraphs, so proceed with caution. To me, Apocalypse Hotel is a story about living beings themselves, extending beyond restrictive human-centric beliefs that hold Yachiyo back from accepting that she is more than just a robot. I like this angle because it gives Yachiyo her own agency, beyond being just a tool for the people who created her.

The show hints that the robots that manage to survive are the ones that have “defects” in their AI, meaning those more likely to develop real personality traits like Yachiyo’s pessimistic tendencies and her irrational love towards shampoo hats. That is what pushes them beyond their preset programming, giving them the necessary flexibility to survive. You can also see this in the environment checker robot who vastly outlives the thousands of other robots of his same type, probably because he developed a huge ego.

The series also deals with communication and understanding. This is mostly conveyed through the Tanukian family, who fled their planet due to their own species not being able to communicate with each other, and sought refuge on Earth. At first, they try to forcefully impose their way of living in the hotel, which generates friction with Yachiyo, but through proper communication, they manage to reach an understanding; it’s very heartwarming to watch how close they become as the show progresses. This culminates in the exceptional episode #099, where the Tanukian family holds a simultaneous funeral and wedding ceremony that mixes the cultures that have become intertwined. The ceremony is both hilarious and emotional, in a way that I haven’t seen any other anime even attempt. I have massive respect for this show for pulling off something like this.

The way the finale caps off the show, after reaching the main thematic conclusion in the previous episode (more on that in a different category), was also satisfying. It could have just gone for an ending where humanity returns to Earth, but rejects cheap fulfillment to instead show how Yachiyo is no longer dependent on humans; thus, reinforcing her decision to continue managing and improving the hotel so that it can accommodate any kind of alien guest in the future. If for some reason this anime flew under your radar, I wholeheartedly recommend watching it. Maybe it won’t be your anime of the year, but I’m sure it will be an overwhelmingly positive watching experience!

Honorable mentions:

    • BanG Dream! Ave Mujica: I actually had a hard time deciding whether this or Apocalypse Hotel was my anime of the year. Despite choosing Apocalypse Hotel in the end, Ave Mujica was by all means the anime I had the most fun watching. It serves as the sequel to Bang Dream! It’s MyGo!!!!! , standing out from the larger franchise that encompasses them by swerving away from their safe nature. Director Koudai Kakimoto sought to tread new ground with them, not only for the Bandori but also for girls’ band anime in general—and that he did, in a memorable way. Achievements aside, this context is important because Kakimoto constructed these two shows as intertwined stories, where members of both bands play important roles in both shows. Can’t have one without the other.Both series feature casts with interesting, complex individuals who sport glaring flaws that often lead to uncomfortable interactions between them, something that most girls’ band anime would avoid. Whereas It’s MyGo!!!!! offers a story where its main characters eventually come to an understanding, accepting each other’s flaws in cathartic conclusions, Ave Mujica does… not do that. The director planned a series that’s in many ways the other side of its predecessor’s coin, resulting in an addictive fever dream of an anime.Ave Mujica’s introduction at the end of It’s MyGo!!!!! already had me eager to watch their adventures, but not even my anticipation of something crazy prepared me for this show—a true descent into madness. Each main character is incredibly fucked up in the head, orders of magnitude more than the characters of It’s MyGo!!!!!. And it gets worse (or better?) throughout the show, as they bring the worst out of each other and keep sinking lower. I won’t specify more because I think this show is best experienced going in blind, so just go give Ave Mujica a try. Very few anime could rival it in terms of unhingedness!
    • CITY: The Animation: This show left me floored every week with its unconventional and creative choices in terms of animation and direction. It’s a generational effort, not only for Kyoto Animation, but also for the anime industry at large. It was for sure the show that amazed me the most as an animation fan in 2025.
    • Takopi’s Original Sin: Another outstanding adaptation effort by the impressive team gathered at Enishiya. Gotta keep an eye on their future projects!
  • Best Episode: Apocalypse Hotel #11

Not surprising that my favourite show of the year also features the episode I loved the most. Mind you, that’s quite the achievement on its own right; it had to be the greatest within Apocalypse Hotel, a show with nothing but wonderful times. Out of all adventures, episode #11 ultimately stands out because of how tightly it gives closure to the show’s most important themes, delivering that with engaging direction as well.

First of all, this episode is by far the most focused one in a show that is constantly shifting between comedic and dramatic tones. For once, it thoroughly embraces the austere and contemplative side of the story. After all, it follows Yachiyo traversing beautiful apocalyptic urban landscapes with very soothing music, which I’m sure was composed specifically for this episode. It makes you feel that there was always an intent to hold back on this type of solemn pathos previously, so that this episode became more impactful. Without any dialogue, Yachiyo comes to terms with the inevitability of change, one of the show’s main themes, and finally comes to consider herself a living being. Her calm declaration that she “felt alive” for the first time, after 15 minutes of no spoken word, will be one of my favourite moments in anime from now on.

I must praise the storyboarder and main director, Chengzhi Liao, for constructing such an immersive episode. It’s a huge achievement to clearly convey the mix of emotions that Yachiyo is going through without any words. One of the key components behind this success is the work of the animation directors, who properly conveyed her emotions through subtle facial expressions. Another key component is of course the background art, which looks even better than usual (partly thanks to the more-careful-than-ever compositing) and invites the viewer to contemplate life alongside Yachiyo. This feat makes a lot of sense considering Liao’s background as a compositing artist turned director, so it’s also indicative of the main staff’s awareness and resource management.

To close this category, I want to highlight that this episode is a great example of an “enshutsukai”, which basically alludes to anime where the technical (and emotional) choices of direction stand out as superlative over other areas of the craft. This is very valuable because obsessed with “sakugakai”; the equivalent for movement, often of the flashy and ostentatious type, which has come to be seen as the absolute, highest form that an anime episode can possibly achieve. The industry has picked up on that fan perception, so now producers are trying to force sakugakai into shows that have no business attempting it with their given resources and schedule.

My intention is not to start a discussion of enshutsukai vs sakugakai—that’s kind of pointless, since they aren’t even mutually exclusive. Instead, I just want to emphasize that we can still get broadly beloved, all-timer episodes built upon aspects other than easily clipable, frantic movement. Apocalypse Hotel #11 places the layouts and backgrounds at its core and elevates them through every minute choice it makes. The animation is barely a factor in a scenario where movement is of no importance, even allowing it to get away with some of the roughest cuts in the show. I hope that in the future we get to see a comeback of enshutsukai; they’re bound to make anime more interesting, and it’s a more feasible route for projects with fewer resources to still create something wonderful.

Honorable mentions:

    • CITY: The Animation #05: I didn’t even think that something like this was possible, but Minoru Oota created a one-of-a-kind episode. It reminded me of the times when I just started watching anime and was amazed by what the medium could offer. Thanks Oota for making me relive that feeling! Can’t wait to see their series director debut in Sparks of Tomorrow!
    • Takopi’s Original Sin #04: I knew Touya Ooshima would knock it out of the park whenever he got the chance to storyboard and direct a full episode. Despite that belief, his Takopi episode crushed my high expectations with its animation power, tight direction and focus on layouts as externalizations of mental states.
    • The Summer Hikaru Died #01: Finally an anime episode adapting a horror manga that feels like genuine horror. The final stretch had me feeling really stressed (in a good way); thanks, Ryouhei Takeshita!
    • BanG Dream! Ave Mujica #11: In a show full of twists and constant one-uppances, this episode somehow manages to top them all with a solo theatrical performance playing inside the mind of one of the main characters. I won’t elaborate further. Never change, HatsuneUika.

  • Best Movie: Kimi no Iro / The Colors Within

In my entry for last year’s bowl, I stated that I was sure Kimi no Iro would have been my movie of the year if I had the chance to watch it. Would you look at that, my hunch was right! This is a worthy entry in the already ridiculous repertoire of director Naoko Yamada. She left nothing up to chance, recruiting a capable team likely to understand her vision; you have recurring partners such as scriptwriter Reiko Yoshida, composer Kensuke Ushio, and character designer Takashi Kojima, as well as former colleagues from Yamada’s Kyoto Animation days like Haruka Fujita, Seiichi Akitake, and Shinpei Sawa. The freelance talent this movie reunited cannot be understated, because achievements like this production are increasingly out of reach for original, auteur-centric movies. I’m relieved, but also not very surprised, that Yamada’s name still carries this weight.

Going into the movie itself, I feel that Kimi no Iro is partially Yamada going back to her K-On roots and reinventing that side of herself. Pleasant vibes dominate the whole movie just like they did in her previous music anime, but they’re now expressed through the director’s modern, abstract and ethereal style. It seems like a strange combination, but Yamada makes it work through Totsuko, the film’s protagonist whom she granted synesthesia to so that she could perceive people’s auras as colors. This enables Yamada to construct colorful and more abstract scenes, depicting the world as seen by Totsuko; something that extends to the art direction and compositing, painting the screen with colors that are not realistic but add that otherworldly feel. As usual, Ushio’s soundtrack goes beyond being just nice accompanying music and is deeply connected with the film’s visuals and narrative. I think many tracks even attempt to make you hear the colors on screen, in line with the synesthesia theme.

Beyond its technical excellence, another standout aspect of the movie is its fresh structure. It constantly declines traditional conflicts and clashes between characters to advance its narrative; no misunderstandings born from Totsuko’s synesthesia, no traditional romantic friction even when the opportunity is there. If anything, Totsuko’s main conflict is within herself, as she assumes that her synesthesia makes her weird and will drive others away. The resulting self-repression is what makes her unable to perceive her own color, which is something that also troubles her. Again, this could be expressed in dramatic, sensationalistic ways, but Kimi no Iro simply isn’t that type of film.

That is true of the stories surrounding the other main characters as well. Kimi and Rui also suffer from grounded, mostly self-afflicted struggles. None of them are outright outcasts, but they don’t quite fit and that has pushed them toward certain degree of insincerity. What they lack is a chance to connect with others in a way that allows the sharing sides of themselves that they kept hidden. Through the formation of an unlikely band and the opportunity to express themselves through music—a statement in favour of artistic expression—they finally overcome their issues, mostly on their own, and without any major setback.

The way Yamada articulates these characters is exactly as you’d expect; joyful and naturalistic character animation with a focus on small, nuanced movements. This of course includes a lot of shots focusing on legs, as they are Yamada’s favourite way to show the characters’ unfiltered personalities. There are also a lot of close-ups of the main trio’s faces whenever they feel troubled, which elegantly depict their turmoil with no need for words. It is through the accumulation of these small character motions that Yamada constructs fully realized character arcs. While that’s just another day at the office for her, I was impressed that she now achieved this in a completely original movie without any pre-existing material. A key aspect behind this success were the designs and animation supervision by Takashi Kojima—reminiscent of his work in Heike Monogatari, but this time seemingly even more attuned to Yamada’s sensibilities. Considering that he was the only animation director, a crazy feat in the current industry, this synergy made a huge difference.

In conclusion, go watch Kimi no Iro if you haven’t already. If you’ve somehow not seen it nor are acquainted with Naoko Yamada yet, its standalone nature and good vibes make it a great starting point.

Honorable mention: Hyakuemu

I watched Hyakuemu right before the year ended, and while I barely had time to think more about the movie, I still want to shout it out because it was an incredible experience (and this one is a proper 2025 release!). By watching this movie, you can tell that director Kenji Iwaisawa is an outsider to the anime industry in the best way possible. He will rush forward without thinking as long as it fits his vision, even if it means pulling off an insane 3-minute-long cut where the camera is constantly moving. Raw intensity is what I’d use to describe this movie; in a very literal sense, because the races show in their unadulterated, true-to-life 10 seconds. Despite that pace, Iwaisawa manages to convey what is going on in the mind of these elite athletes, and as you’d expect, they are all insane in some way. They put their set their whole life ablaze for running, fueling that intensity in a way that only animation can convey. Awesome movie!

  • Best Music Video: On Being (link)

You’ll totally win me over with a music video that features nothing but instrumentals and evocative animation. That is, if you have someone like Masanobu Hiraoka handling the latter. I’ll never get tired of his effects and morphing animation. His flawless transitions also make it feel as if the whole piece is a single cut!

  • Best Opening: Shoushimin Season 2 OP (link)

This year easily trumps the previous when it comes to impressive opening sequences. Among them, one clearly stands at the top: the opening of Shoushimin Series 2nd Season, with storyboard and direction by Kyohei Ishiguro. To say that this opening is visually diverse would be an understatement; 3DCG, 2d animation inserted in live action footage, flat silhouettes, illustrations, morphing paintings, and combinations of any such elements are used. Ishiguro packs every cut with meaning, either related to the characters or to overarching mysteries. He even takes advantage of the fact that this is the second opening of the series, and thus, he can take it for granted that the viewer will feel equipped and motivated to decipher the crumbs he left behind.

Even though there are so many elements to it, the opening has a clear focus on the two protagonists. Given how the first season ended, with both of them deciding it would be best go on different ways, the sequence underlines that separation. But despite this distance, it’s clear that they are very compatible and are basically made for each other. One could even interpret the crazy visuals to represent what’s going on inside their minds or how they see the world, certain events, and other characters. This is an opening that can only work within the Shoushimin series—it dissects its core qualities and converts them into a unique puzzle.

Honorable mentions:

    • Anne Shirley OP (link): Naoko Yamada and Takashi Kojima are one of the most powerful combos in anime right now, a synergy that grows stronger with every project they share. This opening, where they act as storyboarder/director and animation director respectively, is further proof of said compatibility. On paper, the OP is a standard presentation of the show’s characters, setting and main plot lines. However, Yamada gives it an enchanting rhythm that makes it flow naturally as her own time also progresses. The sequence feels like Anne reminiscing of her early years in the Green Gables and the moments she remembers most fondly. The progression to her more grown up self makes that passage of time explicit, and that’s of course one of the most important themes of the novels. Lovely opening!
    • BanG Dream! Ave Mujica OP (link): A bit more of a personal choice, but I just have a blast every time I watch it. Honestly, I think there’s a good enough reason for it: it’s an example of a representative opening, made by regular staff members like director Tomomi Umetsu—who also happens to have directed many of the best episodes of It’s MyGo and Ave Mujica. This familiarity with the franchise and the production staff definitely helped her create something that embodies the dramatic appeal of the series, in a way that’s just as impactful, if not more, than a lavish intro made by an external, star-studded team.This is important in the current climate, because committees are so desperate to have a viral and fancy-looking opening that increasingly more shows outsource these sequences to external high-profile teams. While it occasionally leads to nice results, sometimes it’s straight up false advertisement ahem, Sakamoto Days and Blue Box. Again, that approach isn’t necessarily bad; we’ve recently seen Yuuji Tokuno relying on his talented friends for the opening and ending sequences of Chitose-kun wa Ramune Bin no Naka, which feel akin to what he might do in the show itself if he had no limitations. That’s a perfectly valid option if you can’t secure that staff for the show itself. However, most shows don’t have this luxury, so I think it would be better if they relied more on their main staff.
    • Witch Watch OP1 (link): Megumi Ishitani showed once again that she is one of the best in the business when it comes to crafting opening sequences. It was nice to see Masayuki Nonaka, the animation director, performing at such a high level again; sadly, a rarer occurrence nowadays because he’s busy as a CAD trying to salvage shows with difficult schedules.

  • Best Ending: Anne Shirley ED (link)

You might be familiar with this Yamada & Kojima duo at this point. This time, they leave behind the show’s standard aesthetic for a warm and evocative ending. Watching this ED triggers my imagination, true to the spirit of the work, and makes me remember Isao Takahata’s adaptation which I recently watched and absolutely loved. The loose background animation of the first cut shows a slice of Prince Edward Island, which highlights the importance of the setting itself and makes me reminisce about the different events that took place there. The cut of Anne running from behind, which is made up of Yamada’s own watercolor paintings, feels framed from the perspective of her adoptive parents, who see her grow physically and emotionally. Anne then morphing into a lantern flame is a clear statement that she brought warmth to their life—simple but genuinely moving.

    • Mono ED (link): I sure wasn’t expecting an ending sequence storyboarded, directed, and fully key animated by Yasuhiro Irie in 2025. The panoramic camera sequence during the chorus is both a perfect fit for the show and a handy showcase of Irie’s animation skills, so perhaps I shouldn’t have been so surprised. It’s the type of cut that I look at and question how it is even possible to animate it. Definitely one of the highlights of 2025 for me.
    • Chitose is in the Ramune Bottle ED (link): Chao Nekotomi, who storyboarded and directed this ending sequence, showed that she is one of the most interesting directors currently by making me invested in the show’s main character and narrative—something the series itself couldn’t achieve for me.
    • Gachiakita ED2 (link): Loved this ending’s use of stop-motion and real photographs at the beginning. The sequence initially pits the main protagonist against the show’s main antagonist, but as it advances it shows how they actually share a lot of similarities. Neat idea and neat execution via techniques outside of the industry’s norm!
    • The Fragrant Flower Blooms with Dignity / KaoruHana ED (link): This ending sequence, storyboarded and directed by Haruka Fujita, is a great showcase of her style and imagery. I believe those have great affinity with the show’s protagonist, Kaoruko; the elegant, delicate, and symbolic depiction of her feelings is a great addition to her character.
    • Kuroshitsuji: Midori no Majo-hen ED (link): I wasn’t previously aware of Oka Okazaki—the sole storyboarder, director, animation director, and one of the two key animators for this gorgeous sequence. There is a nice interplay between animated sequences and still images, which are greatly enhanced by Imari Ozaki’s color script and backgrounds. It’s also a bit unusual because it lasts two minutes, longer than the standard, but it allows more time to appreciate the beautiful illustrations.
    • Uma Musume: Cinderella Gray ED (link): Kengo Matsumoto, who storyboarded, directed, and solo key animated this ending, depicted Oguri Cap’s character in a very touching way. It’s simple, but it successfully shows how much it means for her to simply be able to run in the present through the physical widening of her life and aspect ratio. A great example, alongside Mono’s ending, of how powerful it can be to give artists the opportunity to conceptualize and animate these sequences on their own.
    • My Happy Marriage Season 2 ED (link): Just a very tender and beautiful ending sequence made by a curious team; storyboarded and directed by Seiichi Akitake with animation supervision by Akiko Takase, both originating from Kyoto Animation. The list of key animators who accompany them is made up mostly of former KyoAni animators from multiple generations. Because of this, the ending is filled with delicate and expressive character drawings, giving the necessary dose of wholesomeness that the show itself often refuses to show.

  • Best Aesthetic: CITY: The Animation

This award has to go to CITY: The Animation, and I don’t think there’s even a contest.

There is no anime that looks and moves like CITY, with its highly specific aesthetic outside of standard conventions. Just being able to put together something that looks like this is an all-time achievement, without even factoring how integral it is to the show’s compelling delivery. After all, the team led by series director Taichi Ishidate didn’t decide to pull this stunt as a mere flex—this was their answer to bring to life Keiichi Arawi’s original manga in the best way possible.

The series focuses on a whole ensemble of characters living in the same city, which you could argue is the protagonist alongside the main trio. Arawi’s drawings make the setting feel alive; you never know what to expect next, as literally anything or anyone being shown can play a role. In order to convey this in the anime, the team decided to unify all visual elements on screen by making the backgrounds look like cel elements. Art director Shiori Yamasaki took on this daunting task and knocked it out of the park, giving a very tactile feel to the backgrounds that plays into that attempt to make everything seamless. It’s also worth noting that the art direction managed to retain Arawi’s visual density in the wider visual format of anime, which was for sure a difficult challenge.

While this lets the anime feel like a true expansion of the world of CITY, a potential drawback from this approach is that you can overwhelm the viewer with so much visual information. I think that the color design, led by Kana Miyata, counterbalanced it with a diverse and comfortable palette to alleviate the show’s visual density. I noticed how carefully fine-tuned the color choice is when I saw a shot with a character wearing a blue shirt with the blue sky occupying most of the background; despite that supposed overlap, it remains so easy to parse and easy to the eye. It speaks highly of the coordination between all departments (art and color departments in this case), something that is enabled by Kyoto Animation’s in-house philosophy. Huge props to each episode’s color coordinator! Of course, other aspects like the compositing and the animation itself are excellent on their own, but I’ll stop here and just encourage you to watch CITY if you haven’t yet. I assure you that it looks unlike any other anime you’ve seen!

Honorable mentions: Mobile Suit Gundam GquuuuuuX, Yaiba: Samurai Legend

    • Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX: One of the reasons it was so exciting that Kazuya Tsurumaki was the lead director of a project after almost a decade was his keen aesthetic sense. He certainly delivered in this aspect, creating a stunning show that looks like no other entry in the franchise. I want to especially shout out the work of art director Hiroshi Katou, who is a longtime collaborator of these folks at Studio Khara. I feel that GQuuuuuuX is his strongest work in a long time; I suppose nothing beats working with a close colleague who understands what makes you tick and can maximize your strengths. Which is to say, it makes good use of Katou’s beloved colored gradients, which he frequently used during the analog era. As a result, watching GQuuuuuuX felt somewhat nostalgic despite the modern-looking aesthetic.
    • Yaiba: Samurai Legend: Yaiba’s aesthetic should be the benchmark for the numerous remakes that are (unfortunately) coming in the future. Instead of going for visual choices that allude to the current generation’s idea of retro, which is garish and not true to history in the least, Yaiba’s remake feels like it’s truly taking the aesthetic of late 80s/early 90s anime as a base and reimagining it with a modern twist. The color design by Satoshi Hashimoto has a satisfying degree of saturation, which feels old-school but still plays nicely to modern flourishes by like the consciousness of ambient lighting. Art director Yuusuke Takeda goes for highly detailed backgrounds, as most modern shows do, but gives them a more painterly touch instead of focusing on realism. The compositing, led by director of photography Susumu Fukushi, is naturally more involved than in retro anime, but I think that the result is mostly defined by the color design and art direction (like in analog era anime) while the compositing highlights those components. All in all, a very good-looking result!
  • Best Animation Designs: ChaO (Hirokazu Kojima)

I’ve only recently become aware of Hirokazu Kojima, a.k.a kojipero, as an animator and designer. It’s after watching ChaO that I think I got to see him at full power. His character designs for this movie are truly unique; they don’t seem to follow any type of anatomy rules, as each character instead looks like a reflection of their personality. As a result, you have a huge variety of unique characters, from those that look like they came straight out of a 2000s Masaaki Yuasa anime to the more realistic ones. Wondering what type of character would appear next became one of the biggest appeals of the movie for me.

And not only were the designs appealing and diverse, they also were animated through all sorts of expressive and cartoony movements and deformations. If I had to somehow describe the effect that achieves, I’d say that it feels like you took the aforementioned Yuasa’s bubbly cartooning, then mixed it with Shinya Oohira’s wiggly linework and uncanny fluidity. It’s a bit of a shame that the reception to the designs by the (very small) audience was mostly negative, just because they were expecting more traditionally beautiful designs for a romance movie. We should be more open towards anime that look unconventional! I can only hope that Kojima gets another chance like ChaO in the future (even better if it’s not at that studio).

Honorable mentions:

    • CITY: The Animation: I’ll be brief here since I’m pretty sure that other entries will go more in-depth with the very impressive work of debuting character designer Tamami Tokuyama. She went for a similar look to the manga’s designs, but tweaked them in ways to favour the animation, e.g. by making the faces chubbier and rounder. This, combined with the noodle-looking limbs, made the designs perfect for cartoony animation. As you’d expect from a Kyoto Animation project, many scenes feature intricate and grounded character animation and the designs perfectly adapt to that type of motion without feeling uncanny.
    • Yaiba: Samurai Legend: This show was a perfect fit for Yoshimichi Kameda’s design and animation sensibilities, both rooted as far back as the source material. The designs also lent themselves nicely to different interpretations by the animation directors and the many notable animators who gathered around this project.
  • Non-contemporary Work Award: Ojamajo Doremi (all seasons)

Let’s get it out of the way: Ojamajo Doremi is one of the best anime of all time, and everyone should watch it. I’m aware that it’s a challenge to convince others to commit to over 200 episodes, including a movie that came out recently in 2019. Even more so, when we’re dealing with a series ostensibly targeted at children. That alone would drive away 99% of anime fans, but if you’re interested in the artistry behind Japanese animation or the notable figures who create it, you owe it to yourself to watch this show at some point.

In my episode of the year entry, I mentioned the concept of “enshutsukai”, an excellent episode that stands out due to its outstanding direction. You can extend this concept to a series-wide level (you can read a recent blog article about such enshutsu anime here), and I believe that’s what Doremi accomplishes like few anime have, despite that length. Because of that, multiple articles could be written analyzing its story and qualities—on top of the already very good article posted in this blog—so I’m not going to attempt this in my already (too) long entry here. Instead, I will highlight the qualities that stood out the most to me, in order to hopefully get at least someone out there to give this special anime a try.

Ojamajo Doremi follows the titular Doremi Harukaze, self-proclaimed unluckiest girl in the world, as well as her best friends. In a world where magic exists unknowingly to people, they stumble into becoming witch apprentices. This is what leads them to face all sorts of challenges, both in the real and magic worlds, for what’s ultimately a joyful and uplifting series. Everything so far sounds very standard for a mahou shoujo anime—and it is, but this scenario is fleshed out like few shows manage to. Huge props to Takashi Yamada, responsible for series composition, the series directors (I will get to them in a bit) and each of the show’s script writers, who conceptualized this constantly advancing and ever more multilayered story.

The series follows the lives of its main cast across four years until they end elementary school, which is already an uncommon choice for kids’ shows that tend to be more episodic and never let their characters age. I believe that rejecting that stasis makes it more accessible than similar shows that are frozen in time for one target audience, especially once you factor in the incredible surrounding cast. Ojamajo Doremi establishes a palpable, diverse community around the main protagonists, which serves to introduce them to all types of situations; though, very importantly, they all feel like individuals with agency rather than catalysts for the main characters. This makes every conflict involving multiple parties feel more natural, and their eventual resolutions have tangible effects on the show as a whole. All in all, I’m sure that anyone watching the show will get attached not just to the main characters but also to those who exist around them. It’s the type of show where you relish both the big arcs and the small interactions between classmates.

Those story arcs of course match the quality of the character writing—a success stemming from the creators’ earnest attempt to guide its audience through all types of conflicts. They make a point to reduce the role of magic in conflict-solving, instead focusing on solutions anyone could pull off, as they’re built upon listening to others, considering their perspectives, etc. Don’t consider its optimism to be naïve, though; Ojamajo Doremi tackles topics that are far too thorny and complex to solve in the spot like families drifting apart or parental neglect. The characters face problems that viewers will realistically encounter in life like bullying, insecurity, societal expectations, sexism, racism, and even mortality.

It’s not like the show suddenly turns dark and depressing, but neither does it sugarcoat and solve its more serious conflicts in a convenient, half-hearted manner. It tackles every conflict with proper care; the show treats the characters involved with respect (important since some viewers might have experienced a similar experience), then takes the necessary time to deal with said problems, even if that means spanning multiple episodes and seasons to reintegrate a shut-in classmate into everyone’s class. Those are the proper resolutions that the show strives to achieve. And that is what ultimately made Ojamajo Doremi a genuinely impactful and uplifting experience for me.

So far, I’ve mentioned what Ojamajo Doremi says, which is impressive on its own, but how the series conveys it is arguably its greatest strength. We ought to start by thanking Junichi Satou, who served as the director for its first season and kickstarted the series alongside Takuya Igarashi. The latter was already a fully-fledged director and one of the most interesting pupils of Kunihiko Ikuhara, but received invaluable support from Satou first and later from veteran and legendary director Shigeyasu Yamauchi. Their distinct contributions are easy to pinpoint: while Satou played a major role in shaping the show’s joyful atmosphere and lovable characters, Yamauchi led the way when it came to dealing with more serious and harsher topics. These steady presences allowed Igarashi to hone his directorial skills, eventually becoming the sole series director and even managing to use the excellent foundations to raise the series to even greater heights.

Also fundamental to the series’s success are the character designs by Yoshihiko Umakoshi. Their simple and malleable shapes opened the way for the series to showcase very loose animation that could fit any type of situation; from ridiculous poses and facial expressions for the many comedic moments, to emotionally expressive outbursts during more dramatic situations. The wonderful painterly backgrounds supervised by art director Yukie Yuki were key to bringing the setting to life and setting the mood; again, it could be a fun or heart-wrenching picture book.

In addition to these figures who established the overall identity, the regular episodic staff consistently kept the floor of quality high. In particular, the team of storyboarders and episode directors was incredibly strong, benefiting from Toei’s exceptional standards at the time—though also attracting more interesting names than its surrounding projects at the studio. Perhaps in relation to that, we have to highlight Toei producer Hiromi Seki, who always fostered an environment where creators could chase their goals. As a result, Ojamajo Doremi was also a formative production for many young animators, directors, and other creatives during that time. It was a series led by brilliant individuals working under outstanding production conditions, truly a lightning in a bottle situation that I believe has never been matched since.

The final point I want to bring up is that this series isn’t only excellent in a cumulative way; sure, it has a type of structural excellence that piles up the more the show progresses, but that’s hardly all. To be more specific, it also features many of the strongest individual episodes of TV I have ever seen. This is something you can naturally expect based on what I’ve highlighted so far, but it’s ridiculous how many all-timer episodes you will experience by watching this series. In Ojamajo Doremi form, those span all sorts of tones: joyful, hilarious, emotional, contemplative and even ethereal. Igarashi and Yamauchi (you guessed who was in charge of the most otherworldly ones) put out so many excellent episodes you’d think they were collecting the infinity stones. You might already be familiar with the output of such renowned directors, but the likes of Naoyuki Itou, Yoshiro Oka, and Yasuo Yamayoshi were also in charge of many genuinely standout moments. You can feel the effects of the production environment in how transversal those home runs were.

To name some examples, I’d start with episode #04 of Doremi Sharp, directed by Yamauchi, as an early showcase of how seriously they would treat the themes of motherhood and family. Later on in that season, Igarashi’s episode #40 wraps up an arc revolving around Doremi’s family and had me crying by its end. In Motto Doremi, I was very impressed by episode #15, which focused on a classmate of Doremi who feels troubled about his single mother’s job managing a restaurant late at night. The episodes involving Kayoko, a girl who is unable to go to school due to severe social anxiety, were some of the biggest highlights of the whole franchise as they showcased her slow healing process.

Especially given his tragic passing in 2025, I also have to highlight the contributions of Tatsuya Nagamine to the franchise. He started as an assistant episode director for the first two seasons, where he learned the ropes until he was prepared to act as a storyboarder and director from the third season onwards. In tune with the show, Nagamine showed a wide range by directing some of the most beautiful and hilarious episodes. And in contrast to regular contributors like him, how about guests like a certain Mamoru Hosoda who directed two episodes in the fourth season? Worth noting not just as an anecdote but also that they happen to be, you know, among the greatest in anime history. Renowned as they are, I don’t think I’m wrong when I say that there are other episodes that are up to par with Hosoda’s. Again, it was a collective success.

If we’re talking about great moments, I feel like I should give a special shoutout to Doremi Naisho—a 1 cours OVA follow-up, released after the fourth season that concluded the main story. Naisho explores the secrets of many characters, and likely due to its different nature, the staff experimented with even more daring narrative scenarios, which led to multiple all-timer episodes. For example, Yamauchi’s episode #04 is a masterpiece of contemplative and evocative direction; never too early in your life to have an existential crisis, dear Onpu. Likewise, episode #12—storyboarded by Satou and directed by Yukihiko Nakao—will very likely leave an emotional mark on any viewer, though I’ll leave it to you to experience it with no knowledge about it. The finale directed by Igarashi is both beautiful and an insane way to end the whole series, definitely one of the ballsiest episodes I’ve seen.

I could be praising the show all day, but since my contribution is already dangerously lengthy, I only want to note that Ojamajo Doremi has so many great things going for it that every viewer will have a vastly different experience. They will grow attached to different characters, have different favourite arcs and episodes—sharing those differences with other fans has also become a big part of its charm. At a time when many segments of the community have somehow convinced themselves that anime creators should be subservient to stories written by others, it’s original masterpieces like this that feel like they’re important to highlight. For that and many other reasons, Ojamajo Doremi is one of the best anime ever.

  • Creator Discovery: Kenichi Yoshida, Masahiro Ioka, and Mukuo Takamura

I was vaguely aware of Kenichi Yoshida prior to watching Eureka Seven, one of his most renowned works as character designer. After completing the show, I fully understood why he’s held in such high regard by fans and industry people alike. Not only is his design sense unique and attractive, his supervision in episodes #01 and #26 elevates them to all-time landmarks of animation. In the final 10 episodes, Yoshida starts being credited every episode for “image sketch”, which I believe has something to do with the incredibly refined drawings that started appearing across that arc. Despite most of those being just still images, the sheer artistry behind them, combined with the specialized compositing they received (as seen in the variable line width found only in these shots), left a mark that helped make the final stretch such a memorable experience. Yoshida’s work here is definitely generational, and every fan of animation should experience it. Eureka Seven is also just a good show, so go watch it!

This year, I’ve also started to look more into art directors and background art in anime, which has deepened my appreciation of the medium. It’s the work from art directors during the analog era that has kept impressing me the most; I’ve come to believe that during that era, the art direction played a more relevant role not only in establishing the visual identity of anime, but also as a narrative tool. In contrast, anime backgrounds in modern anime have been so chronically lacking that this aspect of anime production has lost the weight it once had. It’s a vicious cycle that makes it more prone to suffer from anime’s systemic problems, such as a lack of proper training, overproduction, and so on.

While this topic deserves to be written about more extensively, I just want to use it as an excuse to highlight classic goodies like Masahiro Ioka’s work on Akage no Anne , as well as Takamura Mukuo’s work on the Kamui no Ken and Ginga Tetsudou 999 movies. I was completely unaware of them beforehand, but a quick search showed me that they were very influential and highly celebrated figures within the industry—their resume is more than enough to prove this. I chose these two art directors in particular because I feel that there is no art director with a style like theirs currently active in the industry. It’s something closer to classical Western paintings, which led to very impressive depictions of light among many other qualities. I highly encourage you to watch any of the works I just mentioned, they are great overall and will maybe show you a side of anime you haven’t seen before!

Aarón Rodríguez

Animator, Storyboarder, Director, Smart Enough To Do Basically Anything [Twitter] [Sakugabooru Tag]
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  • Best Show And Aesthetic: CITY: The Animation

A show so good I can’t help but feel like it’s always been there. The titular city feels less like a collection of discrete spaces than a particularly lively Miniatur Wunderland model, where everything moves whether you’re looking or not, and it takes walking around and watching from different angles to get the full picture. The series structures the walk for you, introducing its colorful inhabitants in seemingly arbitrary skits and letting you find connections between them as it moves along, growing and growing until you find yourself in a crazy local event that makes you feel like part of its strange, lovable community. The whole thing comes alive thanks to strong draftsmanship, painstakingly cohesive design language—from the brush pen linework to the specific shape of every BG element and prop—and a spin on Keiichi Arawi’s own (hilarious) approach to animation where nothing moves quite the way you’d expect.

Every week, I felt like I was stepping into a charming alternate reality, which made it easy to go along with both its jokes and emotional core. I rooted for Niikura, got pumped for Old Man Summer, howled like a hyena at Kamaboko’s reaction to delivery food, and teared up at Matsuri and Eri’s looming separation. Watching CITY: THE ANIMATION never failed to make my week better.

Honorable mention (for best show): Shoushimin Series Season 2

The end of Shoushimin’s first season—last year’s best TV anime according to yours truly—spelled out Osanai and Kobato’s hangups right before releasing them onto unsuspecting new partners, with the unspoken promise that they’d either be just as screwed up… or become sacrificial lambs for the leading duo’s inevitable realization that they were made for each other. Watching the latter happen is a feast.

The anime’s commitment to its characters’ subjectivity strengthens the bond between Osanai and Kobato even as they’re apart, making their reunion as cathartic to me as it’s irreparably cruel to the people around them. The final arc is a victory lap for the newly reunited—a serious crime that’s carefully laid out in a series of ellipses and flashbacks and lets the couple grow a little by exposing them to the consequences of playing detective. A show this good is a rarity, but a show this good with a proper ending is an even stranger beast and should be cherished in these trying times.

Honorable mention (for best aesthetic): Takopi’s Original Sin and The Lenticulars

I struggle with Takopi’s narrative excesses and haven’t really finished the show, but it’s hard to deny just how impressive it looks. It’s a sad, messy world portrayed in sad, messy linework and an off-kilter assortment of wide/curved lenses that make it difficult to stay on balance. I often found myself pausing to take in the staggering layout work, the ever-so-slightly sickly air, the summer heat and the plethora of elements that were afforded the cel treatment. It’s one of those “too strong to ignore” works, which makes Akira Amemiya’s The Lenticulars an exercise in philosophical balance, showing up out of nowhere to prove that brains beat brawn when it comes to making anime look good. By literalizing limited animation as paper cutouts and applying the actual cutout filter to a bunch of photos, the very small staff managed to build up a concrete, believable school environment, perfect for a charming teen story.

  • Best Episode: CITY: The Animation #09, Shoushimin Series Season 2 #03

The choice between CITY’s fifth and ninth episodes boils down to whichever one I’m thinking about at any given moment. Both are massive events involving the whole cast and both seem ridiculously difficult to conceptualize, but today I’m going with the Quadrennial City Race as told by episode director and storyboarder Ryou Miyagi. The episode’s sense of scale is unlike anything else I’ve seen, made possible by cleverly shifting the POV between the event’s participants, staff and shady external forces while having the sheer power to draw crowded layouts, full of expressive character and background animation. Everyone in the cast is involved, every joke lands, every single thing that happens during the race is either a climax or a turning point in someone’s story. Then, the final stretch is a shining example of sakuga not as a generic signifier of quality, but a tool to accentuate an important scene and bring out emotions that can only come from continuous movement.

While CITY’s fifth episode reaps the fruit of previous vignettes, Shoushimin’s third is all about sowing—especially for poor Urino. The hot-blooded new protagonist wants to make something of himself and has chosen amateur detective work as his medium. Showing remarkable yet reckless initiative in the school’s newspaper club room during a scene of earthy tones and the faux naturalistic compositions of a live-action film, he decides he’s going to get the culprit of a serial arson incident. A little later, in a scene staged so artificially it could take place in a literal theater, he decides he might as well get the girl too. He doesn’t.

Instead, he gets shown just how much of a gap there is between him and the terrifying Osanai. Urino couldn’t see the blocking; he didn’t know his kneeling had hard-cut him away from Osanai’s upper body. He didn’t have a side-view of the lighting in the hallway or any clue he was about to be put through the high school equivalent of a hard-boiled detective’s love life, but my friend May and I did, and we decided right then and there that watching the poor guy meticulously set up his own downfall while Kengo and Kobato develop their strange double-negative friendship made for the funniest episode of the year.

Honorable mention: New Panty & Stocking with Garterbelt #10B

This pulp epic was just the right way to bookend a year of watching old fantasy OVAs. Rather than faithfully recreating older material, “Lord of the Kokan the Great” (featuring Yuuto Kaneko on the storyboard and Akira Furukawa as director) is all about the strange, magical feeling of stumbling upon an old VHS in a language you can’t understand. The design work calls back to many things, from western B-movie bloodbaths based on paperbacks and pulp magazines, to the violent OVAs of the bubble economy, leaving the compositing to build a welcome sense of hyperreal nostalgia through grain, flickering, chromatic aberration, scanlines and other effects that remind one of the glow of an old CRT screen. The result is one of the most visually memorable pieces of anime of the year, though I’d love to see what the clean drawings look like.

  • Best Movie And Creator Discovery: Hyakuemu / 100 Meters and its director Kenji Iwaisawa

There’s nothing quite as satisfying as films about people who’re devoted to a craft; Kiyotaka Oshiyama did it last year and Kenji Iwaisawa picked up the baton with an electric sports drama that dug its heels into my brain and refused to move for months. Hyakuemu lets its action speak and doesn’t condescend to the audience, navigating the intersection between work and passion—between the allure and danger of betting everything on the ten-ish seconds of a race—with equal fire and maturity. I was surprised by how well Keisuke Kojima’s designs gel with Iwaisawa’s bold, off-kilter visual library and got completely swept up by the movie’s constantly building momentum. I wish I’d watched On-gaku beforehand, but I look forward to doing it now.

Honorable mention: Housenka and Nightmare Bugs

Baku Kinoshita’s Housenka is at its most charming when it ignores the zeitgeist and gives itself over to the Showa era crime stories it owes much of its aesthetic to. As straightforward as it is romantic, contemplative, and emotionally resonant, the only additional things I’d ask of it are some raw animation power and, perhaps, a more time-appropriate soundtrack.

Saku Sakamoto’s Nightmare Bugs is at its most charming when it does literally whatever it wants. While it was played as a feature-length film in this year’s Annecy festival, it’s actually a double feature of the director’s previous works (Aragne no Mushikago and Amrita no Kyouen). Both bug-related horror stories are highly inventive and extremely janky, with as many visual ideas I’d like to note down as ones that would probably count as anime terrorism, and I childishly enjoyed every second of them.

  • Best Opening: Shoushimin Season 2 OP (link), Apocalypse Hotel OP (link)

Less a linear sequence than a nebula of related visual ideas, Kyouhei Ishiguro’s Shoushimin opening feels dense and relentless in its use of mixed media. It could’ve been too much, but the rhythmic, highly kinetic editing makes it easy to appreciate just how strong its images are while keeping them mysterious enough to tempt another watch. I especially love the literal projection of an image onto Osanai and the cel overlay that blurs the main duo out of each other’s plane of existence.

In contrast, Apocalypse Hotel gets a lot of mileage out of a single, linear idea. Yachiyo‘s dance in the dark is adorably tragic in the way the storyboard emphasizes the negative space around her, making for a strong contrast when the lights turn on and the ragtag hotel staff join in. The vocals remain a little off, like trying to catch up to the joy they should be communicating, which makes for an opening as bittersweet as the best moments in the show itself.

  • Best Music Video: METEORGIRL (link)

Ohuton’s art hits the sweet spot between childlike freedom and technical skill. This whole MV is really cute and heartwarming, and I could watch it forever. No more notes.

  • Non-contemporary Work Award: Record of Lodoss War, Legend of Crystania and The Weathering Continent

The children yearn for the Dungeons. As fun as something like Frieren can be, the endless repurposing of Dragon Quest’s iconography for the sake of immediate recognition often dulls the joy I get from fantasy anime—there’s little space for the mythical, the weird and the truly fantastic on the way to the Demon King’s palace. At around this time last year, I resolved to watch & revisit some genre classics and report my findings should they prove interesting. Today, I present to you three distinct flavours of fantasy anime.

Record of Lodoss War isn’t truly weird or fantastic. It’s an actual play of the first edition of the fantasy tabletop roleplaying game everyone knows, which makes it more of a Tolkienesque pastiche with borderline accidental theming than a thoughtfully penned epic. To summarize: the main party’s dwarf is called Ghim. It’s frankly more derivative than the contemporary works I was running away from, but there’s an honesty to it as the—kind of—first of its kind that manifests in the devotion it shows to genre convention, especially through art. Every element of the setting, be it a dragon or a musical instrument, is rendered in lovingly baroque fashion, and the character/setting designs are the most iconic representations of their archetypes in anime. The Rintarou-boarded episodes (#03 and #07, with stellar Hiroyuki Okiura and Kazuhiro Soeta supervision respectively) stand as some of the most visually striking anime I watched this year, coming alive in the moment like I was picturing a passage from a pulp fantasy novel. The rest may not reach the same heights, but they’re still strong enough to have defined what the ideal fantasy anime looks like. Just ask any elf.

Though part of the same franchise, Legend of Crystania is opposite to Lodoss in pretty much every way. The classic OVA series sculpted a simple yet resolutely physical fantasy world and realized it in terrifyingly detailed line drawings. By contrast, Ryuutarou Nakamura’s work relies on pure light and movement to suggest something richer. It’s the Planescape to Lodoss’ Baldur’s Gate—a world teetering between dream and reality, tactile in detail but essentially lyrical, and it’s easy to get swept up in its moods. Every lighting scenario is unique: stylized as though specialists were placing spotlights around a set (sometimes bordering on what one might expect from a German expressionist film) but grounded in the way they affect the cel drawings even as they move around.

And boy, do they move around. The whole affair is animated with a sense of heightened reality reminiscent of Satoru Utsunomiya’s puppet-like work, often by the man himself. Even magical energy swells, darts and crashes with a sense of weight and density. In the presence of magic, looking at the flat-colored shapes, moving lights and tasteful color traces, it’s easy to feel like Crystania would still be ahead of its time if it came out today.

Kouichi Mashimo’s Kaze no Tairiku, localized as “The Weathering Continent”, is a slice of early 90s fantasy horror and the moodiest out of the three works. Far from an epic scale, it spans the stumbling upon and escape from an etymologically accurate necropolis by an adventuring party that skews darker than usual. Rather than shifting in and out of the supernatural, its world is haunted by it, seemingly still until some fool or another oversteps and calls forth its long-forgotten fury. Everything is slightly too zoomed-in, from the storyboards (a Mashimo classic) to the scope of the story (a single chapter of the original novels), leading one to rely on atmosphere and extrapolation to reconstruct a glorious past, a downfall and a destitute present.

Nobuteru Yuuki’s character designs, so often shown in close-up, look strong and rich with detail, but their eyes and clothing betray the wispy elegance of transient guests. Watching them explore and struggle as Michiru Oshima’s music echoes through the halls and chambers makes for an amazing mood piece, reminiscent of the sort of fantasy archaeology the Souls games (sorry) often invite, and the lack of a higher quality release is a crime against animation.

Maki

Biggest homo in publishing [Twitter]
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  • Best Episode: CITY: The Animation #05 (ED/SB Minoru Ota, AD Miku Kadowaki)

I’m not sure what you can say about CITY: The Animation #05 other than that it is, frankly, nothing short of absurd. It makes no attempt to hide that, beginning immediately with Joji Unoguchi’s ridiculous miniature diorama of the Tanabe manor; a first for the studio and himself, since as series director Taichi Ishidate says on the commentary track for this episode, “It’s not like we had a live photography unit in the first place!”. Similarly, episode director Minoru Ota took his charge to ‘graph all the characters’ progress somehow’ a little too literally, and partway through the episode has the screen break into as many as nine individual sections that show what each group of characters is doing at any given moment. (Ishidate, on the difficulty of working out the proper timing for the simultaneous cuts, says “I never want to do this again.” As a side note, these smaller individual sections were indeed drawn at a diminutive size!).

If all of that wasn’t enough, you have the final, explosive sequence of tremendously intricate animation, penned solo (!) by Aoi Matsumoto, evoking something of the sort of a moving, laughably preposterous Where’s Waldo illustration. I don’t personally enjoy the numbers game when it comes to animation, but it’s worth noting that this cut alone is something to the tune of over 1,200 sheets of animation. It’s a breathtaking, ludicrous episode that demands multiple watches—I personally have gone back to it something like five times, at least—and there’s something new to discover every time; much like CITY itself, it’s a burst of pure creativity.

Honorable mentions: Takopi’s Original Sin #01, Ave Mujica #11, Ruri Rocks #07, #09

  • Best Show: BanG Dream! Ave Mujica, CITY: The Animation, Takopi’s Original Sin

2025 gave us almost an embarrassment of riches when it comes to excellent animated series. I wasn’t able to pick just one show to feature here, so here are my top three favorites from the year:

BanG Dream! Ave Mujica (Dir. Kodai Kakimoto): What kind of follow-up did the nigh-universally acclaimed BanG Dream! It’s MyGO!!!!! get in 2025? Well, something like the Code Geass of girls’ band series—a show that uses MyGO as a starting point, but which is in no way strictly bound to those foundations. Indeed, I can’t praise director Kodai Kakimoto and scriptwriter Yuniko Ayana enough for how far they pushed the envelope with AveMuji. Fantastically plotted, paced, and executed, this is almost my ideal anime: farcical, melodramatic, and full of insane women. (Also, Ave Mujica’s music scratches a particular chuunibyou itch in my heart.) It is almost, in a way, the second coming of a favorite anime of mine, Oniisama e….Which is to say: this show might have been made in a lab, specifically for me. With consistently excellent direction and CG work that feels like a real step up from MyGO, I had to talk about it at least a little bit here. Accept Sakiko as your savior and win a free PSP.

CITY The Animation (Dir. Taichi Ishidate): What can you even say about CITY: The Animation? It’s a kaleidoscopic, completely ridiculous production, with some of the most absurd television anime episodes I’ve ever seen; just scroll back to my best episode write-up to reexperience my awe. Nothing about it is normal. The almost unprecedented degree of direct involvement by original author Keiichi Arawi in planning led to unique solutions that wouldn’t have been brought up among animation creators alone. Not that those were shy about their ideas, as seen in the decision to use literal brush pens in the animation to achieve the variable line weight you see in the final product; as Arawi says incredulously, “but you can’t erase that…?”, to which in-between check leader Hiroko Kuroda responds “no, you can’t.”). This show is simply an outlier in terms of sheer creative effort. It’s a series that is going to stay on for many years as a monument to what Kyoto Animation is capable of, and I consider myself lucky that we got to experience it.

Takopi’s Original Sin (Dir. Shinya Iino): While Takopi’s Original Sin is undoubtedly the most difficult watch of the year, for a series that depicts the truly awful in human behavior, it’s shocking how much it draws you into the world of its young protagonists. Director Shinya Iino took on an incredibly difficult task in adapting the vastly popular and meme-ified original manga—he has even said that, when the initial offer came to him, he wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to adapt it into an anime due to its content—but I must say I’m glad that he did.

It couldn’t have been an easy task to preserve the series’ tempo that pulls you in to want to watch more immediately, in spite of such heavy subject matter, nor to balance the comical lightness of Takopi itself against the brutality that is only amplified here in impact due to the nature of the medium. Similarly, character designer/series animation director Keita Nagahara achieved the impossible in adapting original author Taizan 5’s manga designs for animation; despite their apparent simplicity, the line counts in this series are absurd, preserved in the anime in order to maintain their impact. Nagahara specifies he worked to directly ‘channel’ Taizan 5 when working on the designs, and that he spent hours imitating the mangaka’s work in order to achieve the final designs.

On a personal level, Takopi may in fact be my favorite show of the year. It maintains such a high level of excellence from episode to episode thanks to its all-star lineup that, paired with the rawness of its subject matter, the power of its story, and the strength of the direction, it becomes hard to consider it anything but a tour de force. Though Iino is right when he says it’s far from the type of series that one can watch over and over for fun, the fact that it exists at all in this form feels like a major triumph.

  • Best Movie: Kimi no Iro / The Colors Within

It’s difficult to put my relationship with Naoko Yamada into words. Some years ago, I wrote a small thread on Twitter about what meeting her work and coming to appreciate it had meant to me, but it’s been a number of years since then and quite a few things have changed—not the least of which is her departure from Kyoto Animation and subsequent move to freelance work. However, in The Colors Within, her first feature-length film since that departure (and her first totally original work at this length, considering Tamako Love Story was a sequel), she has again given us a thoroughly acted, carefully framed, and beautifully delicate film, giving us my favorite of 2025*.

Let’s not beat around the bush: I love this film. Kojima Takashi’s adaptation of daisukerichard’s original character designs is beautiful, with delicate, intricate linework coexisting with an intentional flat styling in order to reduce shadow complexity. In keeping with Yamada’s interests as a director, each character is given their own life via thorough and measured character acting while remaining light and, at times in the first half of the film, comical and deformed; evoking K-On! and Tamako… or, for the sickos, Ura-On!. It’s worth noting that, though, rotoscoping remains a no-no for her, instead opting to ask the animators working on instrument performance cuts to just reference live footage rather than trace it. While there are many individual cuts that I love and that are quite impressive (Totsuko’s exuberant dancing! The crowd shots at the end of the film!), it’s not worth thinking about this type of film in terms of special, individual bursts of animation; it’s about the sum of its parts, forming a carefully balanced whole.

Also important for this particular story, in keeping with the importance of Totsuko’s synesthesia, is the usage of color. The work in this department is excellent; not just visually, though it is also very pleasant for the eye. I’ll remember the light purples of early mornings, the deep blues of an evening ferry ride, the warmth of a candlelit sleepover with friends, the brilliance of a garden in spring, along with scenes of delicate watercolor splotches to represent Totsuko’s synesthesia. They’re all depicted in achingly beautiful form here—but also incorporated into the soundscape of the film. Continuing on from their maniacal sound recording and mad-scientist mathematical processes for Liz and the Blue Bird, composer Kensuke Ushio and Yamada filtered white noise through a processor to make red, blue, and green noise, which was used in each of the three main characters’ major individual scenes.

Similarly, Ushio created software to mimic the acoustics of certain spaces in the film by measuring and recording the physical spaces they were based on, like the models for Ruri’s church and the Catholic school cathedral. In keeping with Yamada’s goals of treating and filming the characters as though they were real people, those were applied to the scenes set in each specific location to make it feel as though the characters were really there.

The penultimate scene of The Colors Within is a live performance scene, but Yamada intentionally wanted to avoid distracting fancy camerawork, instead keeping her focus on the characters and crowd. The result is a live performance that really feels live—as in, one where you or I could be in the crowd, watching three teenagers belt out amateurish lyrics on a gym stage. In an interview for Newtype, the interviewer suggests that when one is focused on watching a band perform live, it’s easy to fall into a world of one’s own, thoughts and memories spurred by the performance; they tell her that the same thing happened to them when watching the final performance in The Colors Within. Yamada’s response is breathless: “That’s literally just the best,” she says. “That’s just… what an incredible success.” I would have to agree.

*Yes, it really came out in the US in 2025!

Honorable mentions: Hyakuemu. (Kenji Iwaisawa), Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid: A Lonely Dragon Wants to be Loved (Tatsuya Ishihara… if I had been able to see it, that is. Who screens a new film for a single night? Not even a full weekend, but a single night! In the middle of the week! I’m talking to you, Crunchyroll. Get it together.)

  • Best Music Video: Tsukino Mito—Hitotte tada no tsutsu janai desuka (link)

This was a year of serious heavy hitters as far as OPs, EDs, and animated MVs are concerned. While I loved every work I’ve outlined below in the honorable mentions, though, coalowl’s MV for Tsukino Mito stood out as a personal favorite. Famous for her viral animated MVs like Telecaster Boy and Piplup Step, as well as her ED for Chainsaw Man #04, here she tackles Tsukino Mito’s particular brand of subculture goofiness while maintaining the allure that she’s worked hard to build as a vocal artist and dancer; there’s something endlessly and deeply appealing about coalowl’s dancing animation cycling through Iinchou’s different stream outfits. Even more impressive is the perspective and rotation cut late in the MV, which I could probably watch over and over and remain satisfied for the next year or so. With a beautiful palette and great photography by Azuma (who has worked on too many excellent things to list here), and, yes, complete with a smattering of fun references for the prisoners, I’ve returned to this MV many times this year. For good reason!

Honorable mentions: Tsukino Mito—Lunatic Wars (ACBu, link), Takopi’s Original Sin OP (Ren Onodera/Weilin Zhang, link), Ave Mujica—Imprisoned XII (Mimei aoume, link), Ave Mujica—Crucifix X (qootain, link), Ruri Rocks OP (Hero/Mayu Fujii, link), Witch Watch OP1 (Megumi Ishitani/Masayuki Nonaka, link), CITY The Animation ED (Shiori Yamasaki, Tatsuki Kase, link).

  • Best Aesthetic: Silent Hill f

In the past, I wrote about Little Goody Two Shoes for this category, and this year I am once again going to talk about a horror game (sorry!). Konami’s triumphant return to the world of Silent Hill in Silent Hill f is noteworthy for a number of things, starting with the accolades it’s deservedly receiving over its Ryukishi07-penned story of women’s struggles during the incredibly sexist time and place of 1960s Japan. However, it’s arguable that even that success is owed to the unique visual world it crafted to then submerge its protagonist Hinako into, nightmare after nightmare. That’s how it became such a return to form for the series.

Without giving away too much, everything in Silent Hill f’s rural setting of fictional Ebisugaoka is important to Hinako’s story. Tendrils grow across the ground as they attempt to ensnare her, spouting striking blood-red spider lilies in the process. Gruesome monster designs evoke many senses of dread; the body horror of pregnancy and childbirth, or the intense fear of becoming the target of wild and grimly possessive lasciviousness, just to name two. Everything has its place within her world.

Silent Hill’s signature fog of course makes an appearance as well, here applied to a new world of muted rural greens, grays, and browns, eventually giving way to eerie blues and vibrant, fleshy pinks and reds. This comes together as a palette, and a world painted by it; I love the designs of the town and school sections in particular, along with the incredibly visually arresting late-game areas. It’s the type of visual experience that manages to stay fresh even across multiple playthroughs. Similarly, the fact that Hinako’s changes—resulting in a radically altered character design later in the game—have inspired such an outpouring of cosplay in the wake of the game’s release is a testament to the particular itch f’s aesthetic scratches. As a lifelong Silent Hill fan, I don’t think I could have asked for a better game to breathe new life into one of my favorite series.

  • Best Animation Designs: Ruri Rocks (Mayu Fujii)

Two years ago, I wrote extensively about Onii-chan wa Oshimai!, and I’m happy this year to have the chance to plug Shingo Fujii’s most recent project, Ruri Rocks. After splitting with Ryo Imamura post-Onimai to work on separate projects, Fujii brought on a relative newbie to the character designer role for Ruri—Mayu Fujii. Although she’s inexperied on such roles, she had worked on the second season of Mushoku Tensei at Studio Bind; a project that across season 1 was a breeding ground for the talent that would go on to power Onimai and, of course, Ruri.

This brings us to Mayu Fujii’s work as character designer and lead animation director. While the original manga’s designs have their own charm, it’s easy to see why she was chosen for the role here; her thoroughly rounder take on the characters brings out the charm inherent in the source material while making them far more interesting to see in movement. Personally speaking, I’ve always loved more blobby, rounded designs, and Fujii here strikes a wonderful balance. She enhances that animation-forward roundness with a lovely anatomical style that feels right at home in a series that’s very much grounded in physicality and, well, the ground; nothing feels more natural than seeing the characters here go from fun, blobby smears in one cut to admiring the beautiful shine of the gemstones they’ve excavated in the next.

An interesting anecdote about Fujii’s character design work on Ruri is that, according to director Shingo Fujii, given that this is a series about mineralogy and, thus, much of the fieldwork depicted takes place along and within rivers and bodies of water, Fujii put significant effort into depicting how the characters’ clothing should look when wet and submerged in water; if you’ve seen the show you’ll know how impressive it ultimately ends up looking. And if you haven’t—please do yourself a favor and give it a watch.

Honorable mentions: CITY: The Animation (Tamami Tokuyama), Takopi’s Original Sin (Keita Nagahara), The Colors Within (Takashi Kojima)

  • Non-contemporary work award: Shoujo Kageki Revue Starlight: The Movie

There was a meme post that went around recently on Japanese Twitter regarding the Revue Starlight film that went something like this: “If someone were to see this movie for the first time and come away saying ‘I understood it’, I wouldn’t trust anything else they had to say. I’ve seen it 50 times and I still don’t understand it at all!”. While I haven’t seen the film 50 times (yet), I still feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface of what director Furukawa Tomohiro packed into it; as one reviewer put it, it’s avant-garde cinema akin to Throw Away Your Books, Rally In the Streets in the form of a commercial anime package—a rare treat for those of us who hunger for more anime film that I can only describe as being ‘an insane person movie’.

Without going too deeply into the background behind the story and the reasoning that went into making the movie what it is, it’s important to at least mention the fact that it is a film that takes the theme of the TV anime, along with the premise of its denouement, and skewers it. Not content with simply turning it on its head, or going down a different road than the TV anime, Furukawa makes a point to thoroughly attack the naivety of its ending in order to push the story and its characters forward and onto something new. That in and of itself makes it a rare breed among sequels, and it begins to explain the nigh-endless appeal of the film and why it’s gained such an incredibly devoted fanbase; enough to garner regular repeat screenings of the film for nearly five years and counting.

Of course, no matter how good the story is, when it comes to a movie sequel to a series focused on musical sequences with dazzling visuals involving complex setpieces… well, you simply need the delivery to back it up as well. And boy, oh boy, does the film deliver on that front! Whether it’s Karen’s impassioned acting in the first act of the film, Hikari and Mahiru’s ‘friendly’ sports bout-turned-horror movie, the spectacularly operatic duel for Tendou Maya’s soul, or the incredible extended Mad Max: Fury Road reference during the finale (aptly titled Super Star Spectacle, which incidentally has been my Discord name since I watched the film some months ago), the film is literally nothing but striking visuals. Notable work by, of course, Takushi Koide, Sayaka Kosato, and a lovely complex sequence by Shiori Tani, among so many others. The movie oozes passion—fitting for a story that amounts to a love letter to the fervor of creative endeavors. I look forward to getting to see Love Cobra in 2035 or whenever it comes out (perhaps this year…? No, probably not).

Yuji Tokuno

Series director, storyboarder, ascended sakuga otaku. ☆く(*≧▽Ơ֦ ) かしこま！ [Twitter]
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  • Best Episode: Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX #07, Honey Lemon Soda #11

Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX #07 is an episode with the sense that something’s about to happen permeating throughout, and its quick tempo and plot twists are modern and stylish. You could call it the turning point episode, like Diebuster #04. Magnificent.

On the other hand, Honey Lemon Soda #11 is a directorial tour de force!

Its comedic sense, brisk pacing, its sound design, the way it chooses what to animate and what to keep still. The way it evokes its shoujo manga roots… A masterpiece. It’s excellent from an auditory perspective, so please watch it with headphones or earbuds.

From start to finish, Ruri Rocks is very evocative throughout.

The animation quality is always high, and contrary to my expectations that it’d be an anime where the appeal is weighted more towards the characters compared to the manga, it wonderfully illustrates the charm of minerals and exploration. I also love the way that the finale ends, which to me felt like a way to say, “We’ve given this anime everything we could.”

  • Best Movie: The Obsessed / Toritsukare Otoko

First, it’s wonderful how Masatsugu Arakawa‘s designs suck you into the world of the film from start to finish. The story is wonderful as well, and I think it’s fair to say that the designs contribute a great deal to the vibes. My soul was shaken to its core at the second coming of Windy Tales.

  • Best Opening: Witch Watch OP1 (link)

Absolutely flawless; no explanation necessary.

The skill and overwhelming charisma it must have taken to pull this off in an environment that’s not what you’re used to. No notes. I also liked how they gave an in-universe reason to show the unfinished version.

  • Best Ending: Dandadan Season 2 ED (link)

My favorite among Komugiko2000‘s animation works. It meshes well with the show’s vibes and themes, wrapped up into a sequence that strikes a perfect balance to be broadly appealing. The way the characters move is very charming, and makes me want to watch it over and over.

  • Best Aesthetic: Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX

Everything’s great. The color usage made me go, “Give us more Kazuya Tsurumaki anime!” A work of film that is satisfying in the way it intentionally elides details and focuses its resources.

  • Best Animation Designs: Yaiba: Samurai Legend (Yoshimichi Kameda)

[Yoshimichi] Kameda‘s the best!

The design and color unity of the key visuals are wonderful. They pack a punch you wouldn’t expect going off the original manga, especially the early art. The skill to make it all work, and the clout to bring a production together; all of it is wonderful.

  • Creator Discovery: Kiyotaka Ohata, Miton, Hiroki Uchiyama, Makoto Kato

The episodes directed by Kiyotaka Ohata on Honey Lemon Soda, Miton & Hiroki Uchiyama‘s various work on Ruri Rocks, and Makoto Kato‘s contribution to The Fragrant Flower Blooms with Dignity were all fantastic.

I had known their names, but I hadn’t really familiarized myself with their output, so I’m glad that this year made it possible to see their work in this way. When it comes to both the direction and animation, they get their job done as episode directors while never forgetting to follow their hearts, and I hope to learn from their example going forward.

Geth

Eternally purple [Twitter]
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  • Best Show: Yaiba: Samurai Legend

Every generation of animation fans is going to have a handful of artists closely associated with their earliest memories of disruption within this normally all-too-neat hobby. You can’t help but be drawn to those individuals who first stood out to you by clearly drawing something of their own. Personally, I am of the generation of One Punch Man and Mob Psycho 100, so naturally, Yoshimichi Kameda is at the forefront of my nostalgia.

Now in the present, Kameda’s latest venture with Maiko Okada’s star-studded production line at studio WIT happens to be a (re-)adaptation of Gosho Aoyama’s shounen samurai manga. The source material dating back to the late ‘80s gives this adaptation a retro feel, furthered by the nostalgia-emboldened animators designing action with exaggerated and limited drawing counts, customary of the most charismatic work of that era. Under Yoshimichi Kameda’s supervision, Shin Samurai-den Yaiba achieves a unique blend of old-school cool and new-age polish. It features a ton of awe-inspiring action setpieces which serve as pedestals for creative talents to shine. This is a must-watch for drawing enthusiasts.

  • Best Episode: Yaiba: Samurai Legend #06

As I mentioned, Shin Samurai-den Yaiba has done an amazing job at enabling its best drawing talents. Look no further than the sixth episode for a prime example, as Takeshi Maenami was given complete jurisdiction over Yaiba’s fight against Batman “Batguy” (Totally not a Bad Guy). “Complete”, in this case, is no euphemism; Maenami solo animated the episode, finished every cut himself (no 2nd KA), and was not corrected at all by chief animation director Yoshimichi Kameda. Solo-drawing episodes are in and of themselves rare, but to have also finished everything on his own makes for an incredibly personal screen experience.

Moreover, this is about as calorie-dense a solo episode as the world of animation has ever seen. The action barely stops for a moment, and even when it does, Batguy’s flamboyant acting fills the space between the eccentric swordplay. Yaiba #06 feels like a clinic designed entirely to show off everything that Takeshi Maenami has come to represent as one of the few true Kanada-kei animators. Beyond the force oozing from the screen, this episode feels memorable as a passing of the torch—from Kameda, who has largely moved on to design and supervisor duties, to Maenami, who very clearly is still going strong in the key animation sphere.

It was our friend Ashita who dubbed Takeshi Maenami a ‘fucking monster’ for his work on some show long ago, which Maenami found out about and decided to adopt as a jokey moniker. In this case, I’m being as unironic as possible when I say Yaiba #06 is a fucking monster of an episode.

  • Best Opening: Call of the Night Season 2 OP (link)

My winner for this category is, unfortunately, wholly fraudulent in the context of a sakuga award. Bluntly put, Yofukashi no Uta is lacking in the aesthetics department, relying on garish, haphazardly applied filters to mask what is yet another poorly realized production by the ever-disorganized Liden Films. It is for that reason I would have instead appreciated this OP taking its own direction, divorced from the show, in a similar way to Mashle S2’s OP, which leveraged the unique qualities of Creepy Nuts’ music to deliver a standalone experience. Instead, we’re left with an opening with some of the best music of the year, boosted by phenomenal editing from director Tetsuya Miyanishi, yet ultimately held back by looking no different from the series at its baseline. What a banger, though.

The likelihood of encountering a modern-day artist who both understands the design sense of Yoshitaka Amano and possesses the drawing skill to channel him into animation is slim. You could argue that it’s simply impossible. After all, we’re talking about one of the most legendary designers of all time, yet one whose style has gone the way of the pocket-passer in the NFL. Which is to say that it’s not extinct, but the rules of the game have changed, and in his case, the detail-heavy, straight-ahead style of drawing is hardly seen anymore in commercial animation.

Perhaps more relevant is the evolution of anime design approaches over time, from something more closely resembling human-features to the terrain of stylized, simpler stylization where you could slot designs like the ones seen in moe works. When we’re asked to categorize something as an “anime design”, it’s more likely that something like Konosuba would fit our stereotype vs. Angel’s Egg or Vampire Hunter D. Ultimately, this is a finer point that would make a great topic for another time.

Yoshiaki Kawajiri was able to adapt Amano into animation on multiple occasions, leveraging the incredible strength and resources of Madhouse in the ‘90s to articulate ridiculously intricate designs more than they had any business moving. This would be the exception, though, and especially as time went on, Amano’s design efforts in the anime space were increasingly poorly realized.

Perhaps, then, what it takes is a non-commercial effort—and that’s what we have here with NICCOLO. As a student work, it’s free from the traditional douga pipeline, and it appears the artists successfully channeled Amano largely straight-ahead; which is to say, each drawing follows the next without much consideration for economy or efficiency. The result is surprisingly elegant and refined. I appreciate the underlying narrative to the short, as this violinist, based on the life of Niccolo Paganini, comes to the sobering realization that reaching the top isn’t all that it’s made to be. Regrettably, I can’t speak much toward the artists themselves—their backgrounds, interests, mentors, etc. That said, I don’t feel that such considerations are necessary in order to appreciate this work of art that pays a wonderful homage to a time that is gone, but not forgotten.

  • Non-contemporary Work Award: Darkside Blues, Killer 7

Darkside Blues is an edgy, dark sci-fi movie designed by Hiroshi Hamasaki and animated by Michihisa Abe’s production line at JC Staff. This era of the studio’s history is underscored by a number of commercially unsuccessful yet creatively brilliant works, and Darkside Blues is no exception on either account. It was originally Toshiyuki Tsuru’s genga credit on the movie that drew my attention, and to that end, I was fortunate enough to connect with Hiroshi Hamasaki. He fondly reminisced over the scenes I showed him and credited a good number of the more notable ones.

As for the movie itself, a fair warning in advance, it features some disturbing themes and subject matter. The story is cryptic and not all that substantial. It does, however, very much succeed in so far as leveraging the skill and high level of craftsmanship of the artists involved.

While this next mention isn’t an anime, it’s very much sakuga in a different sense. Killer7 is an on-rails shooter written and directed by Goichi Suda. Categorizing it is difficult since ultimately, it’s a game that plays more like an interactive movie. Suda’s passion project was picked up by some miracle by Capcom, then released for the Gamecube and PS2 in 2005. While far from a commercial success, it has gained a cult following over the years for its ambitious presentation and unique gameplay.

Ages ago and on this same site, I recall Kevin discussing how limitations and obstacles can serve as a catalyst for creatively-rewarding solutions. The context in his case was anime, specifically Kunihiko Ikuhara’s works, but I do strongly believe Suda’s Killer7 is a prime example of the role that budget, time, and staffing impasses can play in the creative spirit behind the art.

In Killer7’s case, the CGI modelling is primitive, but a total non-factor considering the framing and stylish color palettes. By nature of being an on-rails game (ie. the player does not control the movement of the character), Suda is able to be in permanent control of the camera and makes excellent use of this advantage. Those contrast-heavy color palettes, and even the presentation as a whole, are strongly reminiscent of Akiyuki Shinbo’s work around this time (The Soul Taker and Le Portrait de Petite Cossette in particular). In fact, the similarities are pronounced enough that I wonder about the extent to which Suda was aware of his work.

The game’s world is relatively small, with playthroughs amounting to around 14 hours. In a Metroidvania-like fashion, though, it makes intelligent use of backtracking in order to manage file size and the amount of modeling and rigging required. It is by no means a game without its shortcomings, but it’s rare to see such a stylish passion project masquerading as a commercial video game. It’s a bit of a shame that it only seems to be recognized to the extent it deserves so many years after its release.

One of the few downsides to playing on a CRT is that there’s no easy way to screen capture, so excuse the quality of these photos, which don’t do justice to how good it looks. You get the idea, though!
  • Creator Discovery: Michinori Chiba (’90s edition)

For most of his career, Michinori Chiba has been known as a beloved character designer, particularly by Gundam fans, for his work with Gundam 00 and Iron Blooded Orphans. More recently, he designed the popular Bones original series Sk8 the Infinity, and continues to maintain regular supervisor duties across a number of diverse franchises.

With that said, you’re probably wondering how Chiba of all people ends up in this creator discovery category. That’s simply due to a very real phenomenon I’ve encountered in my time as an animation fan: the key animation career of creators that transition to full-time design/supervision work tends to be anywhere from underappreciated by the community to outright ignored.

Chiba was one such case, despite having started his animation career around 1990. For the next decade and a half, he worked primarily as a gengaman with a very talented and charismatic group at Studio Hercules. And yet, in spite of those interesting origins and overall notoriety, Michinori Chiba’s sakugabooru page was dismally barren until recently. With the help of the gengashuu that Studio Hercules published over the years, and fellow animator and Michinori Chiba fan, Takaya Sunagawa, we’ve been able to flesh out a lot of his missing key animation work. As the resident Pierrot expert, I took it upon myself to comb through Yu Yu Hakusho—the series that Chiba first cut his teeth on, serving as a springboard for his career. Fortunately for me, my work was easy, since his drawing ability was leagues above his peers even from those early days. Aside from what is archived here, I’ve compiled every guess into one tidy thread. Hopefully we can get confirmation one day!

Akihito Sudou / Kasen

Animator, Storyboarder, Episode Director, Person With Good Taste [Twitter] [Sakugabooru Tag]
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  • Best Episode: New Panty & Stocking with Garterbelt #04C

New Panty & Stocking with Garterbelt #04 “Shoot for Yesterday!” is a chaotic episode that mixes parody of American comic books with comedic and serious parts. But even if you’re not familiar with what’s being referenced, the visuals elicit laughs on their own. A superb episode that ended up being my favorite of the year.

  • Best Show: Takopi’s Original Sin

Director Shinya Iino leads an outstanding team of episode directors and animators, resulting in visuals that hit hard and a series that hits even harder overall. They also made good use of the decision to ditch a TV broadcast and go streaming-only.

  • Best Movie: Hyakuemu / 100 Meters

When it comes to rotoscoped anime, The Flowers of Evil (Aku no Hana) is the one I remember most, but this movie blends anime-isms and photorealism in an interesting way, which I found to be quite novel.

There are some rough-looking scenes here and there, but they’re overshadowed by the movie’s sheer passion, which lit a fire in my heart.

  • Best Opening: Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX OP (link)

I can’t deny that it’s surreal to have all of the characters’ looping side run cycles next to each other like that, but it’s catchy in a way that I couldn’t stop thinking about, and it was the OP I watched the most this year.

  • Best Ending: Kingdom Season 6 ED (link)

I was pleasantly surprised to see visuals that push the envelope like this on an ED for a series like Kingdom.

Ukloim

The Sonniest Of Boys [Twitter]
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  • Best Episode: New Panty & Stocking with Garterbelt #04C and #10B

I’ve been in love with Kai Ikarashi’s craft since his very early work on Kiznaiver and Uchuu Patrol Luluco, and since then, his every appearance has been something I’m looking forward to with utmost excitement. This feeling has obviously started to grow even more when he began to board or direct his very own episodes, with his debut one on SSSS.Gridman being one of my favourites of all time.

His latest one, episode #04C of New Panty & Stocking with Garterbelt, isn’t similar to anything he’s done before. Rather than dreamlike experiences, it’s a homage to everyone and everything that made him the artist he is now. It begins as a love letter to Hanna-Barbera cartoons, then transforms into a tribute to Jack Kirby. In the end, it even goes to space in a style of Hiroyuki Imaishi’s works; an artist under whom Ikarashi trained as an animator, to the point where it wouldn’t be a stretch to call him his successor despite having an identity (and following) of his own by now.

The other episode that I think deserves the number one spot is a very similar case. Yuuto Kaneko, responsible for episode #10B, is a student of another big Trigger figure—Yoh Yoshinari, who served on it as an animation director alongside Kaneko himself. Their synergy is obvious; Kaneko’s drawings and animation style, from the timing to poses, is an evolution of what Yoshinari taught him and what he’s been developing since their time on Little Witch Academia. It’s also a love letter, similar to Ikarashi’s episode, this time reminiscing about old JRPGs and fantasy shows from the era of CRT television.

Both of these episodes are a showcase of what I love about art and animation the most: the inspirations and the experiences that lead to new and exciting resolutions. Something that a dubious technology on the rise will never be able to replicate.

Honorable mention: I might’ve ended up not liking Lazarus as much as I wanted to, but there is one episode of the show that I think is worth mentioning just for the sake of it being pretty much an anomaly in the current industry. I’m obviously talking about episode #04 with a storyboard by Akihiko Yamashita (who boarded pretty much half of the show himself) and, most importantly, a solo animation direction effort by Hiroyuki Aoyama. These twenty few minutes are not only full of well-executed action with animation by the likes of Takashi Mukouda, Moaang, Takafumi Hori, Tatsuzou Nishita, or Hiroshi Shimizu, but also filled with drawings supervised by Aoyama himself. Look left and right, and you’ll find countless productions thrown to the wolves, salvaged by large rescue teams to even air on time. An episode like this, full of idiosyncratic drawings and movement with a singular focus, is something that needs to be celebrated.

  • Best Show: Apocalypse Hotel

I grew up watching a whole lot of television, parking myself in front of the screen after school to enjoy all my favourite cartoons. Something that I really liked about them, but only grasped much later, was the structure that allowed each individual episode to focus on certain ideas and motives. TV programming was full of anime back then as well, so I found myself drawn to that same structure, but with an additional flair that the Western cartoons I watched lacked: the allure of continuity.

The anime industry has changed a lot since then, and long-runners are no longer a thing beyond lasting exceptions like Crayon Shin-chan. Nowadays, producers also seem to prioritize adaptations that are very straightforward, not allowing scriptwriters to play around the source material and create their own, unique stories, so there’s not a lot of room for joyful episodic adventures. That niche is now filled by original shows, which have been left pretty much alone in those efforts. Few and far between, but certainly not dead. And so, despite so much change, sometimes we still get a series structured and created purely with television in mind. One such show this year was Apocalypse Hotel.

It not only is a perfect representation of what I love about the medium and TV as a whole, but also a ridiculous amount of fun, fueled with imagination that runs through all the departments; the scripts by Shigeru Murakoshi, Izumi Takemoto’s concept designs and their animation versions by Natsuki Yokoyama, the art direction led by Kouhei Honda, and of course Kana Shundou’s creative leadership. It’s a collective effort and something that demonstrates where the true strengths of the industry are—in people and what they’re able to achieve together if given trust and allowed enough freedom to get wild.

  • Best Movie: Ghost Cat Anzu

I like weird things. It’s oddness that I’m drawn to, and that can manifest in different aspects: the atmosphere, the designs, the approach to animation, or sometimes simply the script. There aren’t many projects where all those aspects join hands in gleeful weirdness, but when that does happen, we get a special film like Bakeneko Anzu-chan.

I’d been interested in Anzu since the initial announcement, when there were only a few screenshots. The film was eventually released in July 2024, but I only managed to watch it earlier this year. As it turns out, it was as interesting as its creative process made it look. The film’s core is live-action footage recorded by Nobuhiro Yamashita, later turned into animation by a team led by Youko Kuno, who combined rotoscoping with traditional methods. The result has a unique vibe to it you’ve likely never experienced before—unless you’ve seen Kenji Iwaisawa’s On-gaku, and even that is a bit of a stretch. The tempo of the story is what you would expect from a live-action production by Yamashita; in short, its rhythm and dialogue delivery are rather slow, in a way you wouldn’t associate with an animated feature. It’s an anime film, but it doesn’t really flow like one.

The whole thing wouldn’t be such a successful venture if Yamashita’s way of storytelling didn’t work as well with Kuno’s own sensibilities. If you’ve seen her illustrations, be it original ones or the ones she dedicates to Shin-chan, you can imagine those being granted the ability to move and breathe. By taking a look at the imageboards they created for the film, you realize the collective successes that elevate it further across other departments—like the stunning art direction led by Julien De Man at French studio Miyu Productions, who also happened to be the colour designer of the project. All of these artists, seemingly coming from entirely different environments, created something so special that it feels exceptional even among similar avant-garde projects.

Honorable mention: This year marked the end of Takeshi Koike’s Lupin the Third films, which started in 2014 with Jigen Daisuke no Bohyou… or perhaps even earlier, with his character design work on Sayo Yamamoto’s Mine Fujiko to Iu Onna. When the series was put on hold in 2019, I assumed we’d never get another installment. Yet here we are with not one but two new entries; one about Zenigata, similar in scope to its predecessors, and one of a bigger scale that served as the big finale. I was lucky enough to catch precisely that Fujimi no Ketsuzoku film on a big screen, and I couldn’t be happier. It might lack the extraordinary craft of Chikemuri no Ishikawa no Goemon, but it’s still a well-produced adventure film with many things I adore. Amusingly, it reminded me of Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island, a film I loved as a kid. Talk about unexpected ways to win my heart over! It once again made me happy that this series existed, and I’m just as excited for Koike’s future endeavours.

  • Best Ending: Lazarus ED (link)

Among the many artists trained at late-era Gainax and early-era Trigger, one of my favourites is Mai Yoneyama. Across her years in the industry as a regular animator, she made a name for herself through achievements like providing character designs for Hiroshi Kobayashi’s debut show Kiznaiver (based on Shirow Miwa’s drafts). Rather than regularly climbing the ladder, though, she shifted paths and embraced a career as an illustrator instead. That doesn’t mean she has quit animation, though, and it’s always a treat when her occasional appearance reminds us of that. In 2025, she made an appearance for a special moment in New Panty & Stocking with Garterbelt, and also showed up for Shinichirou Watanabe’s Lazarus as the director and solo key animator for the ending.

The whole sequence she came up with for the latter is very ambitious, demanding constant three-dimensional movement. Its camera casually but endlessly moves around bodies lying on the ground, which makes for the type of animation where forms are quick to appear uncanny or outright broken—issues that this ending sidesteps with precision. Yoneyama manages to keep shapes together for the entire run, maintaining a characteristic linework that only gives it more appeal. It oozes with style, plus it reminds us that this multitalented artist is ever evolving.

  • Best Aesthetics: The Summer Hikaru Died

There are so many little things that make an aesthetic work, be it colour design, art direction, compositing, and so on. I personally tend to gravitate towards simplicity akin to early 2000s anime, when the clarity of the images was the priority. That said, my pick for the best-looking show this year is a series that goes in the exact opposite direction.

I don’t have to tell you which season The Summer Hikaru Died is set in, and quite apparently, I don’t have to remind the director either. Ryouhei Takeshita’s approach to the aesthetic wasn’t motivated by beauty and pleasantness in the void, but by the desire to capture feelings associated with a season defined by the scorching sun, a stuffy atmosphere, and inescapable heat. You can feel how this series takes place in a small village surrounded by mountains that the characters can’t really leave. All these intangibles set the tone for a story that, while it is eerie and disturbing on its own, wouldn’t be anywhere as effective if it weren’t for the specific look and texture of the adaptation. It underlines a clear and important message: that visuals have a purpose.

Not everything has to be pretty if that doesn’t serve the core of that work in any meaningful way. Sometimes, the best way to convey specific feelings is to deviate from the common sense of appealing visual direction. That is exactly how Hikaru reinforces the story it’s telling!

Honorable mention: I watched both currently available Mononoke films this year, and oh boy, had I been missing some Kenji Nakamura in my life. He’s always been able to find new ways of expression, experimenting with styles and methods only animation could get away with. His decade-long absence hasn’t changed his approach at all; the Mononoke films are as creative and as avant-garde as everything that came before. In his first opportunity in a while to escape the restraint of TV, he was able to go wild with CG and large-scale setpieces that wouldn’t have been feasible in the problematic productions for his preceding projects. The films still feel connected to the original Mononoke back in 2007, but they develop a more hectic, distinct identity.. It’s amazing how everything in them blends together, from 2D animation, CG and digital textures, to camera movement. A very ambitious effort that wouldn’t be possible without a clear vision and extraordinary artistic sensibilities.

  • Best Animation Designs: ChaO (Hirokazu Kojima aka kojipero)

Shoka, a short anime directed by Makoto Yamada, is still one of the most unique pieces of animation I’ve ever seen to this day. I never particularly cared for its story, but also it’s not something that it emphasizes all that much—its focus is on the presentation. Much of its success in that regard is owed to Hirokazu Kojima, who handled the character and served on it as the sole animation director. That was way back in 2010, and it wasn’t until this year’s ChaO that he was able to present such a unique style again.

Frankly, there aren’t many works that singularly showcase an artist’s style as well as ChaO. Through its entire runtime, it looks exactly as you would imagine a feature film led by Kojima. It’s full of weird-looking characters, with Chao herself serving as an example; we’re talking about a blob-looking fish with a pair of shoes that would be too big even for a giant, and she’s only one of many oddballs. A big-headed baby is going through the streets of futuristic Shanghai, there’s a guy who has a finger up his nose all the time, and if you look over there, you’ll see a man who would fit right next to roly-poly toys like okiagari-koboshi. An opportunity to get a whole project produced around one prolific animator figure isn’t exactly something that anyone is guaranteed to get, even the big names. If that was somehow going to happen, I’m glad that the lucky one was an artist I already adored like Hirokazu Kojima.

  • Non-contemporary Work Award: Magical Girl Madoka Magica, Mayoiga

I watched Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magica for the first time a long time ago, at the very least a full decade. Honestly, I didn’t remember much from the series other than that I didn’t really like it. As time went by and I experienced more of Akiyuki Shinbou’s directed works like Tenamonya Voyagers or Cossette no Shouzou, I’ve grown very fond of his style. Learning that the latter was an important source of inspiration for Madoka—as far back as Gen Urobuchi’s writing process—I came to the conclusion that the show couldn’t have been bad, so I must have been the dumb one for casually writing it off. With that in mind, I decided to rewatch the show this year and found out the truth: yes, I was indeed dumb.

I’m not usually into magical girls anime, but Madoka’s subversion of common tropes is the type of twist that can catch my interest. Much of what the series accomplishes relies on your understanding of the ideas it’s toying with, so I believe that the thing I lacked the first time I watched the series was simply knowledge. With more context to it, revisiting allowed me to understand what’s so special about it on a conceptual level. Of course, it helps that it’s a plain good anime on its own right too. Shout out to Yuuki Yase’s episode #10, a true all-timer.

The other show I watched this year and wanted to highlight here is… Mayoiga. Yes, that Mayoiga, the one almost universally hated but that I believe is just as broadly misunderstood. First and foremost, it’s directed by Tsutomu Mizushima—one of the creative leads in anime most enamored with ridiculous, surreal developments that are somehow highly motivated. As a B horror parody, everything in Mayoiga (from the main plot to the deliberately unintelligent characters) feels as deliberate as it is funny. The odd behavior of the characters is a nod to the genre they’re spoofing, and the awkward interactions between them feel like the inescapable (and again, funny!) outcome of such a weird scenario.

Its silliness is elevated by writer Mari Okada, who’s known for exaggerating the emotions of all characters in her works. You might think that such an approach is made for melodrama, but it does wonders here, perfectly complementing Mizushima’s direction. If someone, at any point in your life, told you that you shouldn’t watch Mayoiga because it’s stupid, they might have missed the point. They might not even be your friend! A real companion would recommend Mayoiga. It’s a great show led by two artists whose styles were an amazing fit for this absurd idea.

  • Creator Discovery: Tomohiro Furukawa

I didn’t jump on the Shoujo Kageki Revue Starlight train back in the day, because back during its 2018 broadcast, I hadn’t seen a single Kunihiko Ikuhara show. That changed in 2019 with Sarazanmai, and especially later as I proceeded to watch Mawaru Penguindrum and Yurikuma Arashi. Those last two happened to feature heavy involvement by a certain Tomohiro Furukawa, who was the assistant series director for Yurikuma. With Ikuhara taking a break from anime (and me not feeling ready for Utena), I started looking for more things with a similar approach. That led to finally finishing Takuya Igarashi’s Star Driver after I put it on hold a few years ago, as well as getting around to Furukawa’s Revue Starlight.

I don’t typically enjoy media mix projects, because their nature tends to burden the creators with certain obligations. Revue Starlight isn’t free of them, but Furukawa’s direction, his ability to formulate imagery that sticks with you just like his mentor’s, made the series an intriguing and compelling experience regardless. Admittedly, I still haven’t watched the sequel film, which appears to take these ideas to a much grander scale. Watching that is definitely on my to-do list for 2026—after that, I’ll be ready to join the Love Cobra waiting room with the rest of the people who still somehow believe it’s real.

Adanusch

filmé watcher, Nandaka Velonica respecter [Twitter]
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  • Best Movie And Best Animation Designs: Chainsaw Man: The Movie – Reze Arc

A sense of vulgar cool, meme-able panels, and character designs that make for easy attention-grabbing cosplay have turned Chainsaw Man’s popularity into a runaway train on social media. However, it’s worth examining the phenomenon and author Tatsuki Fujimoto’s style on a deeper level:

Observe the tracks Fujimoto laid out, and you’ll see a propulsive trajectory cannibalised from a steady stream of pop culture iconography, sublimated into an unmistakably personal and coherent vintage.

Examine the engine, and you’ll find it powered by humorous off-the-cuff expressions, gritty lineart, punchy follow-through, and a see-sawing between graphic abstraction and overwhelming density.

Peek inside the carriages, and you’ll witness young adults relatably disaffected by familial abuse, sudden loss, and alienating labour relations.

Look out the window, and you’ll realise how Fujimoto, sometimes slyly, sometimes brazenly, connects the sexual dynamics and gnarly set pieces inside to a larger political world outside in a way that recalls ero guro (Suehiro Maruo) and radical pink films (Wakamatsu, Adachi, Sato).

To do justice to the manga’s idiosyncratic style for Chainsaw Man: The Movie – Reze Arc, director Tatsuya Yoshihara relies on two opposite aesthetic strategies. A series of playful seductions of protagonist Denji by mysterious café waitress Reze constitute the first half, building up to a vulnerable nighttime pool scene of glossy compositing and sensual montage. The second half bursts into a sustained action set piece of vertiginous velocity and explosive impacts; a lover’s spat blown up into a violent tango, in which Denji increasingly asserts and finds himself.

Strip away these fancy techniques, and you’ll find the movie’s emotional impact hinges on your investment in Denji and Reze’s connection, which was nailed by character designer Kazutaka Sugiyama through a singular detail: Reze’s smile. A piercing smile that she deploys like a weapon, alongside a syrupy voice and affectionate gestures. It’s drawn as an overlong, rounded v-shape—exuberant and charming, yet too sharp to be innocent.

In the course of the movie, as Reze’s stratagem is laid bare, the v-shape plunges into a wolfish, predatory grin, before turning into a grotesque grimace in her monstrous hybrid form. And yet, like Denji, we can’t help but search for a sincere warmth in that smile’s ambiguous nature.

A transportive, oneiric take on the true story of Okinawan schoolgirls getting pulled into duty and then abandoned to the carnage of the war’s dying days, Kyo Machiko’s manga Cocoon is one of the most remarkable artistic documents of the second World War. Her style—all minimal lines and flat tones—is deceptive. What initially plays like saccharine nostalgia curdles into a feeling of crude, shell-shocked queasiness as the girls get caught up in the crossfire. The brutality is rendered incompletely, forcing the reader to intuit the full scale and impact on the teenage characters themselves.

Interestingly, the Studio Ghibli veterans at Sasayuri chose to adapt Cocoon with a Miyazaki-imitating style of charming designs, lush colour, and weighty movement. While on a lower budget, it’s convincing in motion, down to the rhythm of secondary animation like fluttering clothes and bobbing hair. To replicate the emotional aftershock of Machiko’s approach, Sasayuri employs one subversive aesthetic device: blood and guts spilling out of its teenage characters are replaced by bursts of multi-coloured flowers. An incongruously pretty and naive image rooted in the perspective of protagonist Mayu, who has covered herself in a figurative emotional cocoon for survival.

To better contextualize this stylistic decision, one may look to Douglas Sirk’s CinemaScope World War II picture A Time to Love and A Time to Die. It’s a work of manic-depressive worldview, where images of brutality are contrasted with moments of romance, which are interrupted again by carnage until death and love seem impossible to extricate from each other. At one point, the camera settles on a small cherry blossom tree among the ruins whose buds have bloomed prematurely due to the heat of a nearby bomb explosion, unifying in one image beauty flowering in response to destruction. Not unlike Mayu, whose emotional cocoon eventually cracks but is replaced with a resilient, driven maturity on the back of her classmates’ sacrifices.

To understand the magnitude of death, then, we may first need to understand love and beauty. It is that tension which gives life and these works of art their richness. As Kyo Machiko posited herself, “Can sugar rust steel?”

  • Best Show: CITY: The Animation

Adapting the rich sense of community in Keiichi Arawi’s CITY to television posed Kyoto Animation with a unique challenge: how to democratise humour in a small-screen episodic format? “The comic effect belongs to everyone,” is what Jacques Tati proclaimed after all. You might think that KyoAni would just rely on their well-honed sedate slice-of-life sensibility to immerse viewers in the world of CITY—and you would be wrong, because director Taichi Ishidate has chosen meticulous chaos instead.

With the precision of Swiss watch makers, Ishidate and his team fashion narrative domino patterns, with comic set pieces fluidly cascading into each other while feeling surprising in execution. See, for example, the lengthy chase for the pendant in episode #04, which intersects with the daily comings and goings of CITY inhabitants; the background bustling with all manners of curious bric-à-brac, lived-in detail, and hidden jokes.

This approach is best exemplified by episode #05 where, as the characters move towards the same location, CITY keeps track of their movements via splitscreen, i.e., the screen divides into several panels that constantly change size and position, wrestling for your attention. If you let your eyes wander during the episode, you might notice characters trapped in M.C. Escher dimensions, going on literal Dragon (side-)Quests, partying, gallivanting, or, simply, doing nothing at all.

It’s a choose-your-own-adventure comic in motion, in which each viewer may follow different micronarratives and notice different jokes. This makes them unwitting participants in the chaos and turns them into their own communal CITY. KyoAni and Arawi might have made one half of the show, but the other half belongs to the audience.

  • Creator Discovery: Yohei Kameyama (Milky☆Subway: The Galactic Limited Express), Çağıl Harmandar (Vision)

Yohei Kameyama’s sequel to his graduate short Milky☆Highway is a revelation: while synthesizing classic sci-fi tropes into a taut whole (imagine 2001 and Alien 3 happening on the Galactic Railroad), Milky☆Subway: The Galactic Limited Express defeats the inherent stiffness of low-budget CG with a confident application of lively textures; an exuberance built around glossy models, off-the-cuff vocal performances with punchy character acting, tangibly gritty set design with neat world building details, and even a 70s retro OP. All the while, Kameyama keeps the narrative train running at breakneck speed with a rich comedic toolkit of jump and smash cuts, whip pans and zooms, screwball dialogues, and cheeky flashback structure. That he unexpectedly lands emotional jabs with pointed character work and a refined sense of conversational tempo on top of that is, perhaps, the key to Milky☆Subway’s unlikely YouTube success.

On the other end of personal discoveries is Vision, a GEIDAI graduation short by a rare Western participant in the programme, Çağıl Harmandar. Concerned with the journey of images from the iris to the retina, Harmandar’s gravelly lines pull apart, stretch, deconstruct, and reconstruct eyes in jerky motions, punctuated with crisp foley of crackling paper, raindrops, and wind which give the visuals a tactile charge—it makes your brain tingle, your ears tremor, your eyes quiver. Rather than being a mere portal for the relay of visual information, the eye becomes a live organ that responds to stimuli by pulsating fleetingly with exquisite synesthetic reactions.

  • Non-contemporary Work Award: …ere erera baleibu izik subua aruaren…, Habfürdö, Penguin’s Memory: A Tale of Happiness

Basque artist José Antonio Sistiaga spent two years meticulously painting globs of colour directly onto 108.000 frames of 35mm film by hand; a monumental effort recalling other legendary undertakings such as The Overcoat, The Tragedy of Man, or The Thief and The Cobbler. The result was …ere erera baleibu izik subua aruaren…, a 70-minute silent explosion of kinetic tints. Moving ahead at dizzying speed, your mind is unable to hold onto any individual composition, rather, in the succession of dozens, hundreds, even thousands of frames, transient constructs take shape in your visual memory, bringing to mind bodies of water like rain, streams, bubbling cauldrons and oil spills; cells, microbes and human bloodstreams; organisms like bats and insects or constellations like space nebulae and the surface of the sun.

In effect, …ere erera… appears like a big bang of creativity, a symphonic movement in which microscopic preternatural shapes intimate familiar sensations. Its conceptual purity and transparent gorgeousness restore to the audience the awareness of cinema’s constituent parts—shape, colour, motion, and light—and with it the belief that the endless, purposeful reconfiguration of these parts yields the inexhaustible beauty of nature and therefore art.

A film that takes this lesson to heart is Hungarian painter György Kovásznai’s animated jazz musical Habfürdö. A subversive polemic about a generation unable to transcend their bourgeois stations in life, the anxieties of Habfürdö’s characters’ manifest themselves in wild swings of form: the style reinvents itself from cubism to oil painting to real materials; the musical numbers flow from disco to opera to jazz; the character art transforms to fit the mood, bodies discombobulating and re-arranging themselves into new configurations; the perspective capsizes; the narrative takes sudden turns; the inner world replaces the outer.

Contrast that with Penguin’s Memory: A Tale of Happiness, an anime pop musical composed of a potpourri of aesthetic fetishes: peppy Seiko Matsuda musical numbers, frothy drinks in smoky jazz bars, the elegiac poetry of James Randall, the bucolic American road and countryside, lachrymose harmonica tunes, the Vietnam War and resulting PTSD.

It plays all of these elements straight without a hint of irony; what’s more, through repetition, it invests these trivialities with warmth and achieves an atmosphere of melancholy grace—evidence that art can also stem from a skilful assemblage of cliches. Not bad for an anime based on penguin mascots from a bunch of Suntory beer commercials.

  • Best Show: Star Wars: Visions Season 3 #09 – BLACK

Shinya Ohira’s career-long pursuit of visceral expressivity has led him from tactile realism in animated destruction and character acting to a kineticism of blobby shapes and chaotic streams; poetically, culminating in a style of characters morphing into expressive special effects and special effects morphing into expressive characters.

This style reaches somewhat of an apotheosis in his much-anticipated episode #09 for Star Wars: Visions S3. Titled “BLACK”, it’s the work of a director with “a strange love of things that collapse or send fragments flying everywhere”, in which many of the aesthetic themes featured in the previous entries—invention versus reassemblage, jazz, operatic movement, velocity, obsession with the ocular and synesthetic—are encompassed.

Accompanied by Sakura Fujiwara and Alisa’s “Two of Me”, BLACK is infused by the tune’s jazzy (or is it jizzy? get George Lucas on the phone) spirit. It moves like a series of solos by key animators, who are seemingly performing live, improvising and rearranging the episode as it happens. They vary the tempo, the camera either accelerating headlong into chases through fully animated backgrounds or suspending gravity to capture the minutiae of large-scale impacts. They jump up and down octaves, oscillating between smeary chaos and swaying calm. They modulate temperature, from cool whiteouts to hot destruction.

At times awe-inspiring in scale and density, at times unsparingly ugly and nasty, largely incoherent as narrative with only the viewer’s familiarity with Star Wars iconography to guide them, Star Wars: Visions – BLACK is a literal free-fall from space into the eye of madness, a dance on the precipice of oblivion, a series of ruminations on life and death, a dozen-minute psychography of war-torn minds, and proof of the possible freedoms of animated lines.

Kevin

Me [Twitter]
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  • Best Episode: Apocalypse Hotel #08 & #11, CITY: The Animation #05

If I was going to choose any episode of Apocalypse Hotel among the greatest moments of 2025, something that was all but assured given the incredible heights it reached, it only felt right to nominate at least a couple of them. The reason is simple: one of the show’s greatest strengths, which makes it feel more like an all-time achievement than a merely great seasonal, is how absurd a hodgepodge it is. Normally, you would consider this a quality of the show as a whole; a diversity that can enrich the storytelling, but one that isn’t particularly relevant to singular episodes. However, when it comes to ApoHotel, the experience is always defined by the astonishing range of tones, genres, and stylistic traditions it packs under one shower hat. No matter which episode of the series you’re watching, at some point you’ll have to spare a thought to wonder how the hell have they managed to pivot into yet another unexpected genre.

Fortunately, a couple of its highlights happen to be in diametrically opposed extremes. The gap between episodes #08 and #11 spans an entire universe—one we call Apocalypse Hotel. The former is a rare instance of serialized storytelling, forming a mini-arc with the preceding episode for what is otherwise a collection of independent vignettes. While there is an overarching story, no two episodes connect as directly as #07-08, which also happens to be the most thematically ambitious stretch of the show. It’s simply insane to try to tackle a range of topics that includes criticism of modern flares of Japanese militarism, the radicalization of refugees against new waves of immigration, life with disability, or the acceptance that time continues beyond yourself in this short of a runtime. And let’s be clear: not all those ideas are fully fleshed out, as ApoHotel can shift focus as fast as it swings from contemplative to comedic; for those who haven’t given themselves neck whiplash by watching this cartoon, that’s very fast.

However, that ends up not mattering in the least, because episode #08 is incredibly memorable regardless. Perhaps you could find a comedic anime that’d accidentally lose its robotic protagonist in space for an absurdly long time, only for them to crashland and sulk about the fact that they no longer fit into a place that has become somewhat foreign in the meantime. If it were original enough, it may even turn their design into a sukeban tank to show their rebellion against this new situation. On the other hand, a poignant series about the impermanence of things could use a similar scenario to subject a theoretically immortal robot to the same feelings a human might have about the unforgiving passage of time. And yet, only ApoHotel has the confidence and compelling delivery to do both of those things at the same time, culminating with an absurd fight that has no business being as emotional as it is.

The counterpart of the emphatic excellence of episode #08 would be #11: a gorgeous, nearly silent stroll across the post-apocalypse alongside a protagonist who is finally forced to face mortality in her own metallic skin; death and holidays, with the latter somehow being scarier to a workaholic like Yachiyo. There’s a calm sense of resignation to the episode, but also a growing appreciation of all the life that still endures on Earth. In the end, it’s the welcoming attitude that she has always shown as the concierge of Gingarou Hotel which leads to her finding replacement parts to keep functioning. More important than this, though, is the fact that this moment of respite within a clearly still breathing planet allows a robot like her to finally utter the words I felt alive. Each of these episodes could have been the highlight of a great show, but ApoHotel feels like the only one that could contain both.

Speaking of once-in-a-lifetime events, CITY: The Animation #05 is a matryoshka doll of abnormality. Keiichi Arawi’s work is one of a kind, and when it comes to commercial anime, there is no company quite like Kyoto Animation. Even within their resume, Taichi Ishidate’s CITY is so absurd that it almost makes the 2011 adaptation of Nichijou feel quaint. Remove another layer of that onion and you’ll notice that episode #05 is conceptually the most ridiculous of the bunch; do so again, and then you’ll see a series of sequences competing to take the crown within its madness. It’s ridiculous challenges all the way down the tower.

Similarly to the also excellent ninth episode, CITY #05 sets out to adapt an entire volume of interconnected stories into a single episode; one that is longer than your usual TV offering, as is true of almost every single episode, but with a tight runtime for such an ambitious goal nonetheless. Ishidate tasked episode director and storyboarder Minoru Ota, who was on his final trial before becoming a series director himself, to tell all those stories concurrently. Mind you, he meant it in a figurative sense; he envisioned a sequential way to thread parts of them all together, just as other storyboarders like Ryo Miyagi brilliantly did. The thing about Ota, though, is that he’s a somewhat insane individual. In a way, it feels wrong to call him ambitious—it’s more than he’s off sync with most people, so the answers that come to him are oftentimes the type that others wouldn’t even consider. Sometimes, that is bulldozing through a wall in a way that is straightforward but also wildly outside the norm, and sometimes the answer is fundamentally odd.

Looking at CITY #05, we find an episode somewhere in between the two. In a way, it’s so simple: the series director said all the individual story threads should be included, so he did that. In execution, it’s one of the most outrageous episodes of television ever made. Ota didn’t only include an entire volume of stories becoming increasingly intertwined, but he even fleshed them out with countless details. He literalized the battle for screentime through paneling, leading to a storyboard that has regular pages gradually turning into a chessboard; eventually, it’s so packed with viewpoints that the storyboards have an appendix with hundreds upon hundreds extra shots depicting what every inhabitant was up to. The panels themselves toy with the animation, making for a dynamic viewing experience even if you can’t keep track of everything. While they guide the eye of the viewer impressively well, teaching them where to direct their gaze and which parts are falling into a routine, this is the type of episode you’ll want to rewatch multiple times regardless.

Now, look beyond the structure—both in script and the shape of the screen—and CITY #05 is still an absurd episode of TV anime. It doesn’t take long to establish that fact, as it quickly incorporates a mechanized diorama that the studio’s art team and veteran painter Joji Unoguchi spent 3 months making. To make sure that you’re as surprised as Nagumo when she finds herself very kindly kidnapped into a rich person’s mansion, this incomprehensible structure bursts from the ground without time for you to prepare. A series that had assembled one of the most seamless art styles in animation suddenly pranks you with a real-life prop, which it then accompanies with other irreverent mixes like 2D animation alongside its own Dragon Quest clone. It’s in a final stylistic turn, this time with beautiful parchments, that the ending expands Arawi’s amusing local lore to make such a bizarre building into an extension of CITY’s fun identity. Every choice behind this episode is unusual even by the show’s bizarre standards, yet by the end you’re convinced that it represents CITY the best.

Even on a more mundane level, CITY #05 remains very impressive. The moment you stop being in awe about every extraordinary stunt it attempts (and then lands), you’ll notice that the animation is regularly excellent; giving the studio’s Osaka ace Tatsuya Sato essentially more time than he’s ever had led to several minutes of amusing character animation with his characteristic flippant timing, which often sets him apart from his peers. While his important role was a given, it’s worth noting that everyone else in the team stepped up to the challenge as well. Most notably, the iconic Where’s Waldo-like catharsis was entirely key animated by Aoi Matsumoto—one of the quietly rising figures at KyoAni, taking up increasingly bigger jobs at a time when new leadership is needed. Given how many cases like hers are popping up, and especially considering that Ishidate embodied this entire project as a training exercise for up-and-coming artists, this episode’s final achievement is making you quite optimistic about the future.

There’s no better what to summarize what CITY #05 represents than listening to its creators talk about having the time of their lives making it, and also swearing never to do anything like this again. It’s the very definition of a generational episode, and while its formula is something we’ll never see again, it makes me look forward to the next time that Ota’s odd brain surprises us from a completely unexpected angle. If he overlaps with a work that gives him half the room for experimentation than CITY did, we’re already in for a historic treat.

Honorable mentions:

  • Ave Mujica #11 is the type of episode that rewires brains; whether it sends them into a spiral of denial or makes them cackle like maniacs is up to each individual, though. The most daring twist in a wild show is delivered with enough pizzazz and theatricality to feel like this wasn’t a swing for pure shock value—people believed in Koudai Kakimoto’s demented vision and did their best to sell it. Me? I bought it with glee.

  • One storyboard for My Dress-Up Darling #05 is all it took for Shin Wakabayashi to remind the world how exceptionally skilled he is; one he didn’t even need to process himself, though given that it was a close acquaintance like Yuichiro Komuro directing, he might as well have. Wakabayashi arrived at a Kisekoi that had reinvented itself in between seasons, embracing formal playfulness straight out of Bocchi the Rock while also being much more thematically pointed than the first season. He took a look at a team of directors who had Bocchi experience—something he lacked—and then beat them all at their own game, with an ingenious episode that screams at you about how directed it is; naturalism? That’s cowardice, he says, highlighting the artifice whether it’s real puppetry or sleek, in-your-face storyboarding. Remember Goku’s overpowering presence after spending a long time in a healing pod? This episode is the equivalent of that, except Wakabayashi was recovering from egg-shaped mishaps and still sort of active, away from the spotlight. Very happy to have him back at full strength!
  • Although episode #09 has it beat on ostentatious charm, I have a soft spot for Ruri Rocks #07. Shinpei Sawa has a knack for framing the ordinary as larger than life, having been one of the flashier guys at KyoAni, which makes him a great fit for showing how a simple place of acceptance for her hobby can mean the world to a young girl. Meanwhile, Masaho Hori proves to be just as bold by daring to depart from Sawa’s storyboard in climactic moments, despite this being her debut as episode director; when she’s behind some widely beloved episode in the near future and people start wondering where she came from, wonderful showings like this will be the answer. There’s risk in shifting focus to a character in the latter stages of a single cours show, but Ruri Rocks’ delivery is so good that you won’t even think about that.
  • While solo key animation episodes come in many flavors, there’s an implied ceiling to their calories. If you have a single person drawing every cut, the level of energy is meant to be lower than in animation festivals with multiple participants. If that person also happens to be a regular member of the team, with added responsibilities—like say, being the assistant character designer and main animator—then those restrictions should be more severe. Do you know who has read none of those rules? Takashi Maenami, the pen behind Yaiba #06. Given his role in defining the show’s aesthetic, there’s no sense of incongruity when stepping into his domain; sure, the animation is clearly a few steps above the norm, but at no point does it stop feeling like Yaiba. His omnipresence also gives it internal coherence, even as he switches the angularity, depth, and level of detail in shots as he sees fit. In that regard, chameleonic director and storyboard Yuji “Mutobe” Tokuno becomes his greatest ally, turning his own tendencies into the perfect vehicle for Maenami’s own. High octane coolness from the first shot to the last.

  • If you liked Yaiba #06, I recommend checking out Detective Conan #1155 as well. Somehow, the sibling Gosho Aoyama series ended up having the most spiritually similar episodes of the year. Mind you, that episode of Detective Conan isn’t a solo animation effort, but it’s dominated by the presence of an artist who loves snappy movement nonetheless. In its case, it’s the director, storyboarder, assistant designer, co-supervisor, and animators in the trenches Hiroaki Takagi who goes on a hilarious rampage in a goofy original episode. Watching the show suddenly adopt block shading for comedic dramatism, outrageous posing, and sandwich impact frames has only become funnier with time. After all, Takagi was entrusted with another original episode just recently, where he uses the same side characters to launch another fever dream. These episodes are a stunt that you can only pull off this effectively when you have one of the longest shows of all time, with a clearly established norm, and also dare to do something radically different every now and then.
  • Kiyotaka Ohata’s episodes of Honey Lemon Soda (#05 and #11) are the clearest examples of a veteran director who has fallen by the wayside but still preserves his touch. Ohata has barely directed any of his boards over the last decade, becoming a storyboarder by trade who’s not expected to go overboard. However, his dear old friend Hiroshi Nishikiori—Honey Lemon Soda’s series director—never forgot who was his best partner in projects like Azumanga Daioh and Tenshi ni Narumon, so he entrusted Ohata with pivotal moments. The result? Enchanting, very amusing usage of repetition and multiplicity, comedic animation of a brand we haven’t seen in ages, and plain evocative direction. Episode #11 in particular takes all these qualities to the next level, matching his most flavorful direction with a particularly cathartic narrative beat and the animation of a living legend like Takeshi Honda. Unc’s still got it.
  • While I didn’t enjoy the second season anywhere as much as I hoped for, the upside of an anthology series is that there’s always room for someone to make an incredible episode. Multiple contributors to New Party & Stocking proved that much, with the Yuto Kaneko-led episode #10-B being by far my favorite. Trying to evoke 80s fantasy epics isn’t exactly novel, but the level of specificity in this attempt is incredible; they’re not just processing the footage to make it look like a crappy analog recording of a Conan the Barbarian-like show, but also keeping the whole thing in an incomprehensible language. This episode is a gem of a VHS you stumbled upon at a yard sale, which you can’t understand a word of but still feel like it kicks ass. And you’re right, because it demonstrably does.
  • Mono was another show that didn’t click for me as strongly as I’d wished, but don’t get it twisted: there are exceptional moments in this show. Whenever it fully committed to the awe of nature and the more atmospheric side of this story, it proved to have access to a level of excellence that its otherwise more compelling predecessor Yurucamp couldn’t ever sniff. In the end, my favorite episode was #04: one that had plenty of moments of such refinement, but also an irreverent, charismatic, and loose approach to the animation. The world isn’t ready for this team to take everything to the next level with Kamiina Botan.

  • Best Show: CITY: The Animation, BanG  Dream! Ave Mujica, Apocalypse Hotel, Milky☆Subway

Francisco Ibañez passed away in 2023, leaving behind a legacy as one of the greatest cartoonists of his era. The master of the onomatopoeia is best known for penning Mortadelo y Filemon for nearly 7 decades, a publishing run so unimaginably long that it hides more diversity than he often gets credit for. While the adventures of the iconic duo have always embraced absurdist humor, the means of expression, format, and even their place of employment changed a lot across Ibañez’s career. He may be one of the most renowned comic artists in Spain, but that doesn’t mean the broad public has a proper grasp of everything he accomplished.

People will quickly point at 1969’s El sulfato atómico—a fun mockery of authoritarian regimes, somehow published while Francisco Franco was still alive—as his magnum opus, without considering how wildly different it is from a lot of his work. Already a huge departure from all previous adventures, as it was the first long serialization for the two secret agents, its stunning drawings bear resemblance to Franquin and the best of the bandee dessinée. With time, he’d fully move away from that level of detail in favor of simpler elliptical forms to construct his characters; a transition that made them appear less life-like, conforming more to the cartoony needs of his humor. While the style it settled on rarely reached the same technical heights, it felt like an embodiment of the comics’ identity, and Mortadelo as a whole became richer through all the evolution it underwent.

If the mortadeloverse was already more diverse than people realized, that’s even truer of Ibañez’s repertoire as a whole. After all, one of his greatest achievements was coming up with dozens of series between the 50s and 90s; each and every one of them, a jumping pad for a different flavor of slapstick. Among them, a personal favorite was the 60s gem 13 Rue del Percebe. From its first strip to its last, the fundamental idea behind these comics doesn’t change: a single page framing an entire building, inhabited by all sorts of outrageous people. While each apartment is a vignette of its own, they’re not restricted by the limits of actual panels. This facilitates constant interactions between the inhabitants, whose ridiculous ideas will often affect others even if they don’t realize it.

Serves to say, it was 13 Rue del Percebe that I thought about when I started reading Keiichi Arawi’s CITY. Rather than limit the scope to one building, the author challenged himself to interconnect the titular city in similar fashion. While I really enjoyed his previous work in Nichijou, its surreal humor was so detached from reality that it never felt concerned with establishing a sense of place. Even though Kyoto Animation’s directors have a tendency to root stories in the personal—a topic we’ve explored before in how that interacted with Arawi’s approach—even its adaptation still felt like a series of gags loosely set in a wacky dimension.

Looking at both adaptations from that angle, you quickly realize how radically different CITY is. For as recognizable as the underlying humor is, this new series doesn’t want you to parse it in the form of disconnected skits with outrageous animation; admittedly, you can easily split parts of it to that effect. Instead, CITY invites you to chill in a weirdly atmospheric neighborhood, where the occasional crazy events aren’t at odds with a laid-back spirit. It wants you ponder what the stores advertising themselves with ridiculous premises could entail—thanks for not translating those signs, Amazon—as you wander its streets. Making you smile and spark your imagination was what Taichi Ishidate and company stated as their goal, over making you laugh out loud and disconnect from what’s going on. Rather than a surreal gag series like Nichijou, it comes across more as a cute iyashikei anime where the logic engine is malfunctioning.

There is a lot that makes its anime adaptation stand out as an exceptional production; believe me, we have talked about it on this site. The structural challenges they overcame with variable-length episodes that amounted to multiple extra episodes’ worth of footage, often with fascinating rearrangements within each of them. The degree of Arawi’s involvement, which granted the team access to a viewpoint not grounded by the norms of anime production; a joyful voice whispering that they should come up with an all-new musical for the finale, or that it’d be fun if there were physical objects in the show. The choice to draw all the animation with brush pens, which gives every shot the confidence of an artist who knows there’s no undoing what they just drew. The sheer ambition of the animation, which often discards the accumulated common sense of commercial animation in favor of Arawiesque physics and principles. Even the voice acting is outrageous, having encouraged some of the best in the business to go on manic rampages.

But, above all else, what sticks with you is the holistic view. There are no assets to easily tell apart, just countless cohabitants of a city. Like in 13 Rue del Percebe, everyone’s actions are bound to affect others who exist on the same plane. With enough time, you’ll feel like just another neighbor in that single, all-encompassing layer of cartoon joy. Just try to stay away from Nagumo, she’s funnier from a distance.

If I have one regret when it comes to our published articles in the blog in 2025, it’s that I didn’t manage to finish an Ave Mujica write-up in time; in Sakuga Blog fashion, that’s because the plans grew disproportionately larger, so now we’re dealing with a draft about multiple titles. Fear not, though: we will get around to publishing it—this season marks Ave Mujica’s first anniversary, so it’s timely in its own way—and the show was still one of my favorites last year. Hell, it might be one of my favorite pieces of television, period. I understand those who prefer its predecessor MyGO, as that was a more orderly narrative with exceptional thematic tightness. It’s no surprise that the expression of those ideas was particularly resonant, either. People who don’t quite fit within societal standards carving out a space where they can be lost together, but still heard by others, is undeniably beautiful. Its cast is as meaty as they’re entertaining, yet they’re still designed to prod the fandom into imagining the possibilities beyond explicit canonicity. I understand why so many people loved it, because I also did.

Ave Mujica is a different beast.

Don’t get me wrong, they are a duology. It’s not just that one narratively leads to the other; there is thematic continuity, a clear escalation in the gap between the lead group and the rest of society, and members of both bands share character traits (though Ave Mujica mixes things up so that there isn’t simple mirroring) in a way that allows you to appreciate how much crazier everything becomes. Whereas MyGO feels like a collective journey of healing, Ave Mujica is a maniacal jump off a cliff—quite literally so, since people fall a lot in that show. Genuinely disenfranchised girls, people so buried in trauma and the personas they’ve had to create to defend themselves that they’ve lost their sense of self, and even a grindset youtuber. With such dire situations, the connections that are forged aren’t necessarily clean and positive in the same way as MyGO’s, yet they feel like they matter even more.

To match the higher stakes, the delivery becomes appropriately heightened. Mind you: people are a product of their circumstances, but they aren’t their circumstances alone. Part of the fun in Ave Mujica is that many of their members would still be melodramatic performers even if their lives weren’t a majestic mess. The staged feeling of the band’s performances and the show they share a name with bleed into the direction in ways that we never quite saw in MyGO. While a lot of CG anime tries to build upon the spatial characteristics of their tools, Ave Mujica’s greatest moments tap into the deliberate farcicality of 2D classics; and in the most intimate scenes, it’s not just the direction but the character art that drops a dimension to increase the tactility. Stack all that on top of its predecessor’s already layered levels of enjoyment, and you have a show that is a blast to watch and hasn’t left my mind ever since. If you never got around to watching these two series about dramatic girl bands, there’s no better way to start the year. And if there are, they lack a lord and savior like Togawa Sakiko.

I already alluded to it when highlighting the best episodes of the year, and of course in the write-up dedicated to the series, but Apocalypse Hotel is as singular an anime as anything out there. Originally conceived as a pure slapstick comedy, but also with links to mono no aware masterpieces like Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou since the start, the rocky road of its production shaped a very curious show. ApoHotel is delighted to switch genres on a weekly basis, and no contemplative or dramatic situation is heavy enough to stop it from firing up a joke, but it somehow manages to keep its countless forms under the same recognizable umbrella; after all, the fact that it can do anything eventually becomes a distinguishing part of its identity. While it could have been more polished with a more controlled tone, that would also have made it more ordinary—the last thing you want when experiencing something this unique. After thousands upon thousands of words about the show, I believe I’ve made the point: please watch Apocalypse Hotel.

I had quite the conversation with myself about which final show to highlight here, and what to demote to the still meritorious position [citation needed] of being among my honorable mentions instead. The final cuts included a TV anime I enjoyed like the absolute best of them, and a web series I find to be of equal importance as some industry and fandom-shifting landmarks. So what did I keep in the end, then? One that I both had a blast watching and feels like milestone, of course. Yes, I’m aware that’s a lot of build-up for Milky☆Subway, a silly short anime about two girls who disrespect the law.

That said, there’s no underplaying the success of a series that has amassed views in the hundreds of millions. Its road to success is distinctly modern; it began as Yohei Kameyama’s student film Milky☆Highway, which garnered enough attention to become a short TV anime and, in the near future, a theatrical film. The spirit of the series feels equally aligned with the taste of modern audiences, starting with Kameyama himself. He got into animation by traveling to the US to study 2D animation, but seeing that it was a dying art over there, he made the switch to 3DCG. Conversely, returning to Japan with these new skills made him realize that they hadn’t taken off in his own country. In his view, audiences couldn’t vibe with CGi series because they were too clinical, robotic and safe. His solution, then, was to make 3D animation with the spunk those lacked, conveying it through its design sensibilities and rhythm.

In specific terms, this means that the characters in Milky☆Subway have very modern, true-to-life interests and even fashion choices, despite being a collection of weird creatures in a retrofuturistic world. The most distinguishable trait is the delivery of the dialogue, which isn’t only written to resonate with those modern audiences, but also gets delivered with chaotic recklessness. There is no situation where the lead characters will give others room to talk, instead interrupting and speaking to each other in a way that makes it look like there was no script at all. Of course, that’s a lie—it’s Kameyama’s expert control of tempo, which is far and away the greatest strength of his work. Hilarious mayhem ensues, but it never becomes the wrong type of overwhelming, because there’s a rhythm to its madness. Do yourself a favor and go watch it already, it’s short enough that you’ll have to wonder why you didn’t do it before.

Honorable mentions:

  • Takopi’s Original Sin might be the series I’m happiest existed in 2025, considering the impact it could have on the anime fandom at large. Series director Shinya Iino worried about tackling such thorny topics as extreme child abuse, especially seeing how parts of the manga had taken a life of their own as memes, but I think there’s great upside to the adaptation’s success. To put it simply, the increasing desire for safety within commercial entertainment—seeing that as a way to maximize the reach and thus the profits—is making audiences more and more averse to friction, so a tough pill to swallow like Takopi is very welcome. Mind you, I don’t mean to say that its extreme subject matter is the valuable edge here; if anything, I think the maximalist approach to tragedy is the bait for people to approach the truly uncomfortable topics, like the way the series shows how disenfranchised people can become monsters because of their environment, rather than being pure victims to root for. And besides that, you know, it’s also a very well-produced anime that exploits tactility to convey its ultimately uplifting message, but I’ve written about that already. しずまりしか勝たん。
  • My Dress-Up Darling S2 is the type of sequel that, statistically, you might as well consider doesn’t exist. It’s not normal for second seasons, let alone ones that didn’t entirely change teams, to have such a blatant increase in production quality; you can certainly feel the leap between a team that was recovering from WEP to the regained ambition of a crew that recently hit it out of the park with Bocchi the Rock. Even more important is the way that, just like the source material itself but to a much greater degree, Kisekoi has only become thematically sharper with time. This sequel does an exceptional job at showcasing its broad understanding of otaku culture, shedding light on parts of it that traditional male-oriented series don’t care for, then ties that to its message of acceptance. And it pulls that off while remaining a silly (even sillier now!), adorable romcom. This show has become better than we could have possibly imagined.

  • If you were told that a beloved manga series was adapted into anime with noticeably limited resources, you’d brace yourself for the worst. You’d be wise to do so, but The Summer Hikaru Died turned out to be excellent regardless. The mise-en-scene oriented production led by a brilliant director like Ryohei Takeshita prioritized inventive answers and the visceral experience, but without forgetting the themes of Mokumokuren’s work. You will feel so uncomfortable as this team gives viscous form to a small town’s peer pressure, as their judgmental eyes morph under the animation of Masanobu Hiraoka. What I’m saying is that you’ll occasionally have a terrible time watching this show, and that I really recommend that.
  • The write-up about Orb: On the Movements of the Earth earlier this year rightfully celebrated its excellence, though it also hoped for an adaptation of Uoto‘s work that could match the uncompromising spirit of their characters with equal ambition to the production. Did such a thing ever materialize? Tune in to the movie of the year segment to find out! Orb still rules, though.
  • The second part of Shoushimin was broadcast earlier this year as well, and while it might be a bit of a step down compared to its predecessor, slightly less exceptional is a good thing to be. That relative change is due to a shift in narrative structure, but when it comes to its true appeal in the character writing and how that blends into the direction, it continues to deliver in spades. There’s something magical about watching natural-born weirdos try to live like a regular human being, convincing the camera itself to frame them in the most inconspicuous way possible… and have everything crumble down in glorious ways, from a few cracks to moments of genuine horror. I apologize to Osanai and Kobato: in the end, you couldn’t manage to become ordinary. You rose above that.
  • Speaking about sequels, I don’t need to tell anyone about The Apothecary Diaries at this point. So here I am, doing that. Kusuriya suffered a bit of a bigger drop than Shoushimin, though its situation is in some ways the opposite. I’d go as far as saying that season 2 beats the original in embodying the appeal of the series’ cadence. After all, this time it’s not just building a satisfying answer to all the small questions it raises across a singular season, but even doing so to pending mysteries from its predecessor. The cast has always been one of its greatest strengths, and that’s another area where things have, if anything, improved; every show could do with the addition of a Shisui, as far as I’m concerned. Was the execution up to the level it deserved? Frankly, no, and not for a lack of trying—much has been said about C-Station’s attempts to elevate a strained production, and it’s somehow still not enough. Surely the suits will learn not to rush the next entries, once again spreading both teams into different projects and even adding an original movie to their workload. Don’t show me the news.

  • Dragon Ball DAIMA was the type of series that makes me sound more critical than I really am. It’s hard to discuss it without mentioning that, for an adventure series, it kinda forgot about adventuring for much of its run. The diversity of locations simply isn’t there, despite the few corners of the demon realm we get glimpses of being very fun. Friend of the site Ajay has talked a bunch about the questionable allocation of personnel in certain moments of the show, and I’d be inclined to agree as well; for as skillful as everyone proved out to be, some key creators felt overburdened and sometimes miscast. That said: it still was a blast as a fan of the franchise. Often funny, had a respectable floor for the production and the energy to set a high ceiling as well, and the action choreography in particular got a lot of mileage out of the idea of shrinking the characters and temporarily limiting their powers.
  • I challenge you to find a more phonetically satisfying title than Ruri Rocks. That might not even be its greatest quality, but it is worth noting, and it’s also true—Ruri rocks.
  • It may not have had the glamour of Mono, the series with similar themes it overlapped with, but Food for the Soul aka Hibimeshi ended up being a 2025 favorite for me. Its appeal is simple: you take the comedic timing of Non Non Biyori straight out of its original author’s pen, then concentrate all the malicious energy from that entire cast into the demon that is Oshinko. Also, you give it hilarious sound effects for no reason. A recipe so good that it got me emotionally invested in a food anime where they draw the most unappealing dishes you can imagine.
  • When it comes to subversions of Villainess scenarios, a field where you wouldn’t expect to have multiple titles to fondly remember, my favorite was Tetsuya Takeuchi’s take on From Bureaucrat to Villainess. An amusing series that’s delighted to share its passions with a different generation, which happened to land on the lap of a renowned animator most broadly known for action but with a taste for humor like this show’s. Fun recommendation for the entire family.
  • We have a tendency to talk about passion projects exclusively to refer to works that defy the norms of their commercial fields; or at least I think we did, nowadays it probably just gets attached to dictated by committee megahits that people are desperate to hype up on social media. But don’t get it wrong: it’s something like Sorairo Utility that embodies the term. An original show featuring Kengo Saito’s OCs, focused on the sport he got into himself, and mirroring in many ways his experience in the anime industry. An anime that only exists because he pestered others for long enough to rise to prominence within the studio that eventually produced this. And you know what? It was good, sometimes even excellent.

  • Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX dragged Kazuya Tsurumaki into actually making anime, which is enough to make it exceptional. That’s a half-joking statement, but you really do get outstanding direction whenever he dusts off the gloves. For as much as it fell prey to its excesses every now and then, I find the way that talented nerds play with their toys more compelling than UC entries that are overly obsessed with their mythos in a more straightforward way. Was a blast to watch with friends who were equally baffled about everything that was going on.
  • Although the wait for a fully-fledged sequel is painful, Lycoris Recoil: Friends are thieves of time was so good that I wouldn’t mind another short series even if it pushed that back even further. Away from any pretense of overarching narrative, the multi-genre vignettes at the café handled by a rather interesting team are LycoReco at is most charming. And somehow, the best production they’ve had too!
  • See You Tomorrow at the Food Court is a show about the funniest terrible person you’ll cross paths with. Wada did everything wrong, except starring in this show, which was an excellent move.
  • Takaomi Kanyasaki gets another unquestionable win with the Silent Witch. I won’t hear any complaints about the way he overly compressed the story nor any related issues—everything pales in contrast to how effortlessly hilarious his direction is.
  • You know who also doesn’t miss? Neither Mr. Molcar Tomoki Misato nor Sanrio as a whole. What if they collaborated for a My Melody & Kuromi anime, delivered through his charming stop-motion craft? Wouldn’t that be great? Apparently so, because it was one of the most-watched anime on Netflix this year. Audiences sometimes do get it right.
  • If there’s one thing I learned from anime discourse, it’s that there are effectively two genres: action and slice-of-life. Miss them with any type of comedy, romance, character drama, thrillers, historical series, or any sort of speculative fiction. If punches aren’t regularly thrown, that’s a slice of someone’s life; and tragically, not a slicing of lives. Meanwhile, what I’ve heard from prestige TV viewers is that Pluribus is bad because it’s slow and nothing happens. What I can conclude from this, then, is that it’s an iyashikei anime and thus a perfectly regular choice for this list. How could it be anything else anyway, when the series is about people who explicitly want to improve Carol’s mental well-being? I was won over from the very beginning, with its usage of symmetrical compositions to embody the hivemind, and the pointed character writing even in areas where the show’s premise restricts their ability to flex those muscles. Even if it weren’t as intriguing as it is, it would already be well worth watching as a platform for Rhea Seehorn to act the hell out.

  • Speaking of anime, there’s an important debate we should have on a societal level: is there a point where Smiling Friends becomes too well-made? The answer is no, but it still feels weird to see the show about the hateful yellow guy I love and the lovely pink guy I hate have genuinely impressive craft. Mixing styles and different artforms altogether was always part of Smiling Friends’ identity, but by the third season, some instances of it are kinda stunning pieces of animation; shout out to Charlie’s morphing nightmares in the sixth episode, as he’s being karmically punished for being a gamer. Funny, irreverent show where the anything-goes attitude for the characters’ behavior is extended to the visuals, even as they’ve become fancier. I also don’t know what Glep does, but I love that guy.
  • I will beat the allegations that I’m too mean about popular action anime by noting that I was a big fan of the emerging social media narrative around Earclacks‘ fighting balls; there probably was a better way to phrase that. In particular, the rise of Duplicator as a seemingly overpowered, unfair villain to root against, which only made its eventual defeats—utterly embarrassing ones at this point—more satisfying. A fun cross between sports fandom and Jump-like agenda pushing, yet somehow healthier than both. Yep, good anime.
  • Many obnoxious people out there would also complain that Too Kyoo Games’ The Hundred Line: Last Defense Academy is too anime, so I suppose it’s also fair to include it in these awards. What a ridiculous game that is, though! The uncomfortable stylistic and thematic gaps for projects that have multiple writers are something that I have issues with, especially in contexts like gacha games that have distinct systems to pander to the customer while also pretending to tell a story. In contrast, this absurdly massive visual novel/tactical RPG that alternates between blatantly different styles powers through those issues with sheer ballsiness; it comes across as every writer playing their own game with the shared tools, with different levels of success but no cynicism to it. I haven’t even finished the damn thing and it’s already here, because I admired it this much.

  • Best Movie: Hyakuemu / 100 Meters, Chainsaw Man: The Movie – Reze Arc, Mononoke the Movie: The Ashes of Rage

There are 3 minutes and 40 seconds that will stay with me for a long time. Increasingly heavier rain within a stadium. A handheld camera travels alongside athletes who approach the start line, each of them preparing themselves with their own rituals. We casually stroll over to photographers and management staff, before turning around nonchalantly and finding those same athletes warming up. They eventually greet the audience as their participation is announced through a megaphone. The music roars louder and louder as the moment approaches, as if it were thunder befitting the weather. Before you noticed, you were on the edge of your seat, barely able to breathe. You may realize that and wish to be released from this painful wait, but the scene holds onto it for a bit longer. All of this is portrayed through extremely thorough rotoscoped animation for both characters and elements in the background, demanding your attention at all times. When it’s finally unleashed into 10 seconds of ruthless racing, you can feel the weight of nearly 10 thousand sheets of paper.

Beyond being memorable in its own right, this scene feels like a landmark. On some level, as a production feat; the sheer amount of materials, the length of the uninterrupted cut, the entire year to animate this one shot, the thoroughness of the rotoscoping process, it’s simply an astonishing amount of work. But perhaps most importantly, it illuminates why it was such a good idea that Kenji Iwaisawa was appointed as the director of Hyakuemu. Despite happening around one hour into the film, this was the first scene he came up with when envisioning the adaptation. And there’s a good reason for that: it’s the perfect embodiment of why his grounded—yet so creative!—approach to animation is such a good extension of the movie’s themes. As another Uoto ode to how beautifully insane humans are, and how much work goes into fulfilling dreams like reaching stardom as an athlete, this measured yet tense lingering over the preparations is an amazing usage of his unique tools.

The rest of Hyakuemu is, of course, also a very good film. As compelling as the Orb TV anime was, this scratches the itch for an adaptation that matches the author’s reverence for uncompromising people with something just as ambitious. The release of On-Gaku made it clear that Iwaisawa was worth keeping track of just like Uoto is, but it wasn’t until Hyakuemu that I felt I had a good grasp on the director. Sure, we all knew that he accidentally stumbled into rotoscoping without formal training in animation. It wasn’t that hard to pick up on the idiosyncrasies of his unusual production methods. However, it’s now that we can see beyond that traced surface; the obsession with time and its connection with his constant editing approach, the unexpected Takahata-inspired focus on human procedures and its relationship with rotoscoping itself. It’s exciting to figure out a rising filmmaking star, just as he figures himself out. I’m vibrating in anticipation for his next film Hina (and for the period film he’d like to make one day too, because why not dream).

If I had to compare Hyakuemu to any recent work to motivate those who haven’t seen it yet, it would have to be Ken Yamamoto’s Uma Musume: Beginning of a New Era. The two of them are spectacular, intense movies about racing, the type of affirmation that motivates you to do something—genuinely, to stand up and run. However, there’s a fundamental difference between the two; and no, it’s not the preposterous idea to make regular humans run rather than horse girls. What makes Hyakuemu feel different is how, to achieve that, it’s unrepentant about humankind’s glorious self-destructiveness. Whereas Beginning of a New Era makes its characters face themselves in healthier ways, Uoto loves how people are willing to potentially ruin their entire lives for their goals. Considering how much the movie emphasizes editing too, I suppose that makes Hyakuemu closer to being Pompo for athletes than to the horse movie. But hey, that’s another cool film! Just don’t use either as your role models.

Although I missed my limited chances to watch other 2025 films I was dying to see, like Housenka and Toritsukare Otoko, at least there’s always high-profile releases that you can easily catch anywhere. Don’t treat Chainsaw Man: The Movie – Reze Arc like a consolation prize, though—this thing is damn good too, and it’s plenty understandable that it took the world by storm. Or by typhoon with a side dish of Sharknado, I suppose. In our recent write-up, I already highlighted the magnetic quality of a movie (and titular character) that you’ll become genuinely addicted to, maybe hoping that by the umpteenth watch everything will reach a happier end. The movie doesn’t just capture the nuance of Reze: it relishes it, understanding that solving this story would be in poor taste; a tale like Denji’s and hers is much better off when feelings are alluded to rather than spelled out for everyone to see, with some remaining mystique to the exact moments where turns of heart happened.

Beyond that surprising beauty in restraint, and even ignoring aspects like the influence that this project’s success will have over the industry moving forward, there’s the simple and arguably more important fact that it’s a blast to watch. Signing up for a Tatsuki Fujimoto story means getting ready for a rollercoaster of emotions and tones, and few times has it been more obvious than in this film. Director Tatsuya Yoshihara sells Reze’s bewitching character during those quieter moments, and he’s arguably more in his element when leaning on comedic anime shenanigans or staging—alongside action director Honehone, who had effectively free rein—nuclear-grade action setpieces. Between all the blink-and-you-miss-it conceptual details in the fights and classic Yoshihara tendencies like hiding easter-eggs within the drawings themselves, this aspect of the film will also make you want to experience the film over and over again. Maybe that’s exactly what you should be doing, while waiting for the next arc of the series to drop with even more murderous intent.

The last movie that shook me to the core in 2025 was one I intended not to watch, and I nearly made it the entire year with that goal still alive. Mind you, it was for good reason: the new Mononoke trilogy is shaping up to be such a special experience that I was waiting for the final entry due Q2 2026 to binge them together. Since I’d already had a taste of Kenji Nakamura’s reinvented approach to his first hit, I thought I might as well until it was complete to experience it in full. After all, the three of them appear to be assembling an overarching narrative that you might not expect from a mostly arc-based franchise choosing the big screen. My arguments against myself were convincing, but unfortunately, the flesh is weak. Sometimes, you happen to have a couple of free hours, and you stumble upon an available film that you know you’ll enjoy. There are such situations in life.

And you know what? First sin be damned, falling for temptation might be good. Mononoke the Movie: The Ashes of Rage is an amazing film. The return to the Ooku doesn’t feature Nakamura himself as the sole director, but you wouldn’t pick up on that from merely watching the movie, as his right-hand man Kiyotaka Suzuki does an amazing impersonation. The ukiyo-e rendering of the Medicine Seller’s adventures is as striking as ever, maintaining the brighter look that these films have given to the painted scrolls. In contrast to the enchanting, rhythmic repetition that characterized the likes of Bakeneko (2006) at a time when Mamoru Hosoda’s influence still resonated strongly within Nakamura, these modern entries in the franchise overwhelm you through density and speed. Each shot is packed with color and patterns, and they cut to the next one with barely any time to absorb all the information. It’s a deliberately disorienting experience alongside characters who are equally lost within fantastical mysteries. Despite being part of such a long-running series, there is nothing quite like these films out there.

Whereas all of that is also true of Phantom in the Rain, the first movie in this new trilogy, the focus of the story has certainly shifted. A superficial reading might lead you to believe that they shifted from the personal to the political, going from a story of two lowly maids within a system set to erase individual identities to a battle of conspiracies involving people higher up in the social ladder. From this angle, Nakamura’s stated theme of the fallacy of composition is more visible; multiple schemers exploit reasoning that appears sound on its own, but that clearly tramples all over other people once you consider the consequences that their agendas will have. We move on from a movie that used water as a motif across its smaller-scale conflict to one where multi-colored flames are the representation of the personal ambitions rocking the country. They’re fires fueled by people willing to do atrocities to sway families and the entire government in their favor, even as they claim to think of the greater good. In the process of examining them, the position of women within a system set to exploit them is once again given special focus—an interest that wasn’t always as sharp in the earliest forms of Mononoke.

Although there are powerful personal stories at the core of The Ashes of Rage, dealing with so many moving pieces and a grander scale narrative could have led to a loss of characterfulness. Indeed, chances are that you won’t root for anyone as immediately as you did for Phantom in the Rain’s leading servants, Asa and Kame. However, there’s a reason why I said that parsing this movie strictly on a political level would be a bit of a misread. One thing that The Ashes of Rage does is quickly make it clear that it doesn’t exist in a vacuum. The charming co-protagonists of a previous incident might be away from the spotlight, but the amusing side characters who were present back then grow increasingly more familiar as they continue to cross paths with the Medicine Seller—another intriguing figure who becomes more appealing the more time we spend with them. The Ashes of Rage is the type of sequel that feels like it builds a new layer on top of its predecessor, making a dense experience even richer.

As we head toward the conclusion of this trilogy, there’s an accumulation of mysteries, of addressed but not fully resolved character arcs. Even with the grander aspirations of a movie like The Ashes of Rage, there’s also a growing investment in all the individuals who are mere spectators to the supernatural and political frenzy going on. A return to a lightning-in-a-bottle series like Mononoke could have come across as cynical, but Nakamura and his team have managed to come up with an angle that feels fresh and exciting. Rather than allowing the inertia of a sequel to dull his senses, the ever-evolving director has made fundamental changes to the rhythm and structure, in a way that I’ve come to appreciate even more after watching this film. It almost makes up for the fact that the wait for the finale has also become more painful.

Honorable mentions:

  • Cocoon: This adaptation of Machiko Kyou’s heart-wrenching manga was a favorite early in the year. Its story revisits a particularly uncomfortable tale: that of the Himeyuri students during World War II. It pulls no punches in the process, depicting gruesome deaths, famine, and the brutality of men in wars that dull any sort of principles. It’s unimaginably tragic, and yet there’s also a dream-like quality to it; according to the author, the haziness that would be conjured in the mind of a child reading about the darkest moments in history, without being able to fully process them. Within the story itself, the characters use the metaphor of a cocoon as a place to shield themselves from the horrors outside, hoping to emerge safely at the end of it all. The adaptation, then, reformulates the entire story as if it were framed from the inside of that proverbial cocoon. Within it, even blood morphs into beautiful flowers—a white lie that spawns a new type of body horror.
    The visual language used to capture that cruel delusion is as fitting as it is prohibitive to animate, making it all the more impressive that they pulled it off. Even with the presence of individuals like Hitomi Tateno or Akihiko Yamashita, it’s arguable that no Ghibli lineage production (not even heirs as direct as Ponoc projects) has captured the rhythm and fluctuations of Hayao Miyazaki the way that Cocoon does. This would be remarkable on its own, and feels very pointed in a story where the idealization inherent to that style lines up with the twisted perception of its characters. When you consider the nature of the team, full of younger faces in an environment like Sasayuri that is geared primarily toward the training of artists, it’s a genuinely amazing work.Ultimately, it’s also those circumstances that soured me a bit on Cocoon. I’ve been vocal about Sasayuri’s successes not just because they’re palpable on a qualitative level, but also because the firsthand experiences from people working under their tutelage had been positive. As it turns out, though, that wasn’t the case for everyone; there’s nothing new about veterans in environments like Ghibli’s having very high standards, but it’s one thing to be tough, and another one to be straight-up abusive. Reports about psychological harassment that crossed any reasonable lines were shared by a certain individual and corroborated by reputable animators who’d seen this occur during previous projects as well. Young animators who are believed to have lots of potential clearly get preferential treatment, while others are shoved under the bus with no consideration for their future. Not exactly the type of behavior you want to see around a movie about children brutally thrust into war.
  • The Legend of Hei II: The 2019 film version of The Legend of Hei asked an important question: what would happen if you were kidnapped from your found family into a new found family, with whom you have great comedic chemistry? The answer is that you’d get an entertaining film, especially when coupled with a clean art style and excellent fight sequences. Its 2025 sequel The Legend of Hei II doesn’t reinvent the formula, but it’s stronger in enough aspects to feel like a genuine qualitative leap. Its story about coexistence adds more intrigue and slightly meatier character arcs, with less clear-cut answers, but it remains straightforward enough to fit within this world’s simple appeal. Whereas the first film would almost always abridge the character bonding into montages and the comedy into quick punchlines delivered through cheeky editing and non-diegetic cuts (an approach it was quite good at!), everything about the second film feels more organic. The gags occur within a naturally flowing story, which also exposes you more to the broad setting and diverse cast than its predecessor. By finding a narrative excuse to ground the most powerful person, even the action scenarios are more compelling.
    While that’s hardly its only appeal, it’s precisely the fighting that makes it such a standout work. The Legend of Hei II has quite easily my favorite action choreography in animation this year—and beyond that, some of the most exhilarating, tense sequences in a broader sense. For as dynamic as the camerawork is (arguably too much in spots), the choreography remains rooted in the physical terrain of each encounter, seamlessly mixing physics-bending powers and hand-to-hand combat. It’s a kineticism and grand scale approach that still manages to be as methodical as the best slow combat you’ll see in animation; a moment where Hei’s inertia accidentally makes him launch a sheet of metal he landed on, which then becomes a projectile that needs to be avoided by individual they’re pursuing, sums up how calculated yet fun the setpieces are. And yet, there are so many such instances that you might struggle to remember one in particular after you’re done watching the film. It shouldn’t be legal for a movie this cute to kick so much ass.
  • NICCOLO: Have you felt like anime has failed to capture the spirit of Yoshitaka Amano’s design work, which characterized some iconic 80s titles with its gothic excess? Sure, you could go watch the new 4k remaster of Angel’s Egg—in fact, let’s stop the sentence right there. Go rewatch that, or treat yourself to it if you never got around to that masterpiece before. Once you’re done, you can spare a few minutes to experience a short film that also captures those vibes through an unexpected party: graduating students from Gobelins’ animation school. Every year, their young talent present themselves with bold pieces, and this time NICCOLO easily takes the cake. The Amano-esque drawings fit the retelling of Niccolo Paganini’s story, as a violinist who rose to prominence during the advent of the Romantic era but also came to see the restrictive side of that success. NICCOLO shows the dual meaning of music for the artist, while also capturing another notable characteristic of Paganini’s figure: he had endless rizz.
  • The Point of Permanence: This hypnotizing short film by Nana Kawabata was the highlight of my recommendation of indie, alternative animation early in 2025, and it remained a favorite until the end. Its amazing technical merit is second to the visceral experience of watching the minuscule and the infinite pulsate to the same rhythm. Kawabata has a way to drive home the point that, from the smallest components of our cells to our social structures through history, we tend to organize ourselves in similar ways. It’s a system seeking eternal growth, yet it also feels like a loop we’re eternally stuck in. And stuck is what you’ll also be, watching morphing forms for the 10 minutes of this short film. I came across the full version a while back through a film festival’s website hosting—something that may not have been intended, given that they’ve taken it down since then. Would be a shame if it were reuploaded, huh.
  • To the Moon and Back: Another independent short film, this time by Chinese animator Li Shuqin. It adopts a common enough angle by using a child’s perspective to tell a story about loss and grief, but it does enough to feel fresh. It builds around a nursery rhyme from southeast China to channel the message that death is a transformation more than it is an end, conveying so through a curious painting technique that leaves behind traces of itself—just like our loved ones do even after they’re gone. Well worth its 12-minute runtime.
  • Sign: An even shorter showcase of Geidai Animation talent, shared by the school a few months ago. Akari Tada intended to convey the ways people inadvertently hurt each other, but also the fact that there is kindness out there that can reach you. While that is clear when you finish the short, I found the first minute to be a harrowing depiction of someone feeling their life slip away upon first watch. Which is to say that one of my most memorable moments of animation in 2025 was an artist accidentally nailing the feeling of dying.
  • BLACK: I’ve gotten to the point in life, between the cynical management of the franchise and the rightful calls for boycott that have arisen recently, that it takes being at gunpoint to give a chance to new Star Wars material. While I got around to them fairly late, it turns out that the greatness of Andor S2 and of this entry in Star Wars Visions Volume 3 can in fact take the form of a gun. It’s easy to summarize BLACK as the weaponization of Shinya Ohira’s expressionistic style to capture the disorienting, traumatic, inexplicable nature of war for a foot soldier. You can point out that the friction between visuals and audio enhances that feeling, but at the same time, that its jazz tunes give the same feeling as the collage of styles that comes across as artists improvising one after the other. All of that is correct, but none matches the experience of watching it. You know what to do.
  • Little Amelie or the Character of Rain: Very nice film as a whole, though it excels in one area so clearly that I’ll rant about it in a different category. Regardless, easy recommendation!
  • Best Opening: Shoushimin Season 2 OP (link), Witch Watch OP1 (link)

At some point, Kyouhei Ishiguro seems to have made a deal with the devil. I can understand why his opening for Shoushimin S2 has Masashi Ishihama-like stylizations in spots, and that both its cadence and stylistic diversity feel reminiscent of his work. Ishiguro and him have worked closely together in the past, after all. I can even make the connection between his previous opening for Kusuriya where he began toying with assets in a way that transcends the cel animation paradigm and his current style, which mixes emulation of mixed media techniques and the real deal. But to be this good? And multiple times? This has to be witchcraft. The good kind.

At least Megumi Ishitani‘s overpowering excellence is easy to understand. She’s the present and the future.

  • Best Ending: Anne Shirley ED (link)

By directing both the opening and the ending of the series, Naoko Yamada was able to capture the essence of the series from both ends—Anne for the intro, and the Green Gables for the closure. As her own paintings remind us, though, there’s no clear separation between the two; a sequence that begins with admiration of familiar vistas ends with her famous red hair morphing into a warm fire, embodying what she represents for her surroundings.

  • Best Music Video: Crucifix X (link), WOLO (link), THE FOX ELEVATOR BOY RENARD (link), SUNFADED (link)

If Ave Mujica were real, which they are to me, they would personally slide into Saho Nanjou‘s DMs to request a music video like Crucifix X; only the most avant-garde team who have found their way around commercial projects could satisfy my edgy kids. Me, personally, I’d be happy commissioning a much cheerier work from Sheya Chen. One like WOLO, a love letter to cinema that dances between illustration and animation like there was no barrier between the two at any point. While it’s not a music video in the same way, I find THE FOX ELEVATOR BOY RENARD by Nagomi Ueno to have as satisfying a sense of musicality as any other piece of animation attached to a song. Can’t beat Shun Yamaguchi‘s SUNFADED for the most hashtag aesthetic music video of the year, though. Consider it a spiritual winner in the next category as well.

  • Best Aesthetic: Little Amelie or the Character of Rain, CITY: The Animation

Forget 2025, CITY: The Animation is an all-timer visual achievement for commercial animation. Irreverent to the core, it rejects every preconception about anime production you throw its way. What do you mean that you can’t transport Keiichi Arawi’s worldview wholesale into a TV show? Surreal comic physics can’t become the backbone of a much more sequential art? You shouldn’t draw every single shot with a pen you can’t erase just because you want bold lines, in a literal sense but also in their conviction? Spending several months on side quests to create articulated dioramas is unwise? What’s this cel animation paradigm you keep talking about, and why should we treat characters and environments as separate layers? CITY says screw all that noise, and it makes one of the coolest-looking TV anime in existence.

In contrast to other shows that have pushed back against the norms, CITY’s radical departure is in the direction of a colorful, adorable world. When you’re dealing with a production that cleared so many outrageous challenges, people will sometimes get lost in the technical marvel of it, missing the simpler, more fundamental truths—like the way that CITY’s visuals will always bring a smile to your face. As I discussed over and over in our coverage of the show, its most successful accomplishment in that regard is the seamlessness of the joyful world it crafted.

With the original manga, Arawi created a setting where you kick a can and, likely unknown to you, it ricochets off three local lunatics before saving the world. Following suit, director Taichi Ishidate, designer Tamami Tokuyama, art director Shiori Yamasaki, and everyone else at KyoAni devised means to emphasize that togetherness through the shared canvas; general precepts like the color design that should enable the coexistence, but also more specific rules to make it work, like the fact that background lines must always be ever so slightly thinner than those of characters. It’s a singular style that extends from the city and its inhabitants to an implied, appropriate level of technology in the craft. Despite following such a collection of weird individuals, and for as diverse as the stylizations in the show are, the anime sells it as one interconnected whole in a way that few things ever have. I started watching CITY: The Animation while wondering if they had really made a TV anime that looks the way it does. The series ended months ago, and I’m still wondering about that.

Since I’ve already given CITY its flowers, I want to focus on another work that also achieved an outstanding holistic look. Little Amelie or the Character of Rain is the latest collaboration between directors Maïllys Vallade and Liane-Cho Han, adapting the similarly named novel by Amélie Nothomb. Few animated films are as immediately pleasant to the eye as this one. Every sequence sports a different palette, rich but never at odds with itself. It’s mostly concerned with projecting the mood of the moment—filtered through the subjective view of its protagonist, in a story that’s explicitly about her perception—onto each shade it incorporates. This results in a stunning painterly look that’s often relatively grounded, featuring just a color or two that give it a dash of fantasy. And when such a thing is needed, it allows the film to pivot to magical colors in ways that appear natural. This careful color design process manages to create associations between characters and their chromatic aura; since the very beginning, subtle purples follow a character whose dramatic turn is an explosion of the fuchsia bitterness she was always holding back. It’s a gorgeous, carefully assembled film.

Being so beautiful is a strength in its own right, since it allows Amelie to make a strong first impression; and a second, third, as many impressions as you get out of it until it’s over, because the style never gets old. The more precise side of it, though, is what powers a level of seamlessness as impressive as CITY’s. Thanks to how careful each color choice is, the movie can afford to have very similar levels of stylization between characters and backgrounds without ruining its readability. While it’s an effectively full digital production, they chose to emphasize brush-like finishing in all elements you see on the screen, further reinforcing the feeling that it’s one whole picture in motion.

At one point in a making-of feature, the film’s animation director talks about stages in the production where shots drawn by different people are checked in sequence to make sure that they flow properly, without perceived continuity errors or awkward cuts. She explains the underlying goal as making sure the movie doesn’t look like it was made by 20 people—which would already be a way smaller team than it truly takes to assemble a movie of this caliber. Nevertheless, it’s clear that harmony and coherence were central goals, and the results ended up being among their greatest accomplishments. Forget about not feeling the hand of that many artists: it doesn’t feel like its visuals are made up of 20 different assets, since everything coexists organically on what appears to be the same plane.

These elements gel with the themes of the story as well as they do with each other. Amelie is a sensorial story, a movie about its titular protagonist interfacing with the world. After being born in a vegetative state, conscious but incapable of any action, she’s awakened through divine intervention; that is French for casual chance and a grandma who carries white chocolate. As if to catch up with all the time she spent in statis, this little girl who believes her days floating in the ether made her an all-powerful God begins doing things. Many things. And, through its animation and colors, the movie responds to them. As she runs around the place, various forms of lighting blend into her own body, rather than being expressed through extraneous filters—and if there are any extra particles at all, they’ll feel painted with the same brush. When it rains, the skies trickle the same lines that make up the setting, the same ones that Amelie feels like her own. It’s through touch and consequence that she establishes her identity, which only a movie so concerned with depicting a world that could interact with itself could properly convey.

After gaining the ability to feel and look and hear and touch, the protagonist enjoys each and every one of these phenomena that the visuals portray with tender viscerality. While that makes up most of the film, since it’s about her journey to appreciate the joy of life as a human being, the occasional darkness is conveyed through the same tools. When she asks her caretaker about World War II because she’s coming to terms with mortality, the dropping of bombs and explosions overlaps audiovisually with the ingredients dropping into the pot and the boiling as it overflows, with the things that Amelie herself can feel. That, too, is part of life as she eventually accepts it. After all, goodness can live in memory, and there is so much good when you engage with your surroundings the way she does, and when they react back in the way that this adaptation emphasizes. It’s a film about people and colors frolicking on a canvas, and in that way, it doesn’t feel like Amelie has a great aesthetic—Amelie is its great aesthetic.

Honorable mentions:

  • Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba – Infinity Castle: I wasn’t quite sure which category to place this in, which I suppose is fitting on its own right, given that ufotable is a studio who very distinctly do their own thing. Mind you, Infinity Castle isn’t out of place in a category highlighting beauty—some traditional paintings in the film, courtesy of the veterans in the art department, are to die for. That said, the film’s greatest triumph is the way that the titular setting and its animation bombast coexist in such a believable way. Ufotable’s gradual development of in-house, cross-departmental methodologies has culminated in a movie that makes setpieces where people bounce between intricate 3D models, flat backgrounds, and character layers so naturally that viewers might actually think it was effortless. It was not! And most importantly, it’s super cool!
  • Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX: The circumstances of Kazuya Tsurumaki’s career haven’t been ideal, in a death-by-success kind of way. Attached for too long to a behemoth like Evangelion but without the ability to fully take the lead there, we just haven’t seen enough Tsurumaki anime over the last couple of decades; though when we have, like with The Dragon Dentist, it’s been a delight. Perhaps due to that lapsed nature as a director (plus the fact that he’s got good taste), Tsurumaki still has tendencies that date from cel aesthetics and the earlier era of digital transition, like the simple, beautiful gradients all over GQuX. Building around Khara-adjacent veterans is a great choice—you might even get a stunning flashback fully illustrated by someone like Mahiro Maeda!
  • Mononoke the Movie – The Ashes of Rage: Kaleidoscopic traditional scroll where each shot is a painting to get lost in, and you’d better be ready to wander, because the fast cutting that characterizes this trilogy of Mononoke films means that you get more cool cuts than the body can handle. This new incarnation continues to exploit the stylization to integrate dynamic 3D sequences rather seamlessly, though for as cool as those are, patterns and colors are the name of the game. Despite remaining in the same inner palace as its predecessor, these movies’ ability to conjure a seemingly endless number of (thematically relevant!) visual concepts makes it as impactful as the first time. Yeah, I’m going to say that a new entry in one of the coolest-looking commercial anime ever probably qualifies for an aesthetic award.

  • Apocalypse Hotel: I’m an early investor in Kouhei Honda’s ability as an art director, running victory laps after the 1-2 punch of this series and The Summer Hikaru Died. Both aesthetics are purposeful, but I believe ApoHotel plays to his strengths even better; the nostalgic warmth in his post-apocalypse is a great summary of the show altogether.
  • My Melody & Kuromi: Tomoki Misato easily runs away with the best texture award, as he will basically every year he directs a new work. Even among stop-motion creators, his choices of physical materials stand out; the first time you see an element, you might stop and wonder about that curious choice of texture, then you’ll proceed to buy into it so earnestly that you’ll forget that wool doesn’t move like that in real life. Ranked first in 2025 animation you’ll feel like eating, in a poll I just made up.
  • Best Animation Designs: Takopi’s Original Sin (Keita Nagahara, 10+10), Milky☆Subway (Yohei Kameyama)

Something that immediately stood out to me upon Takopi’s announcement was the rugged, tactile feeling to the drawings. This is a quality that was already present in the original manga, but illustrative aspects that rely on heavy detail tend to be left behind in adaptations; and when they aren’t, they will instead trip an animation team that won’t know how to approach them without sabotaging the animation. Takopi’s team refused to compromise in that regard, understanding that capturing the gritty texture was the most successful avenue to get across the visceral horror of its story. Character designer Keita Nagahara was at the forefront of that effort, drawing shots that went line for line with the original but also granted them thoughtful acting. Both in the many low moments of Shizuka’s life and her brief moments of respite, the tactility of the animation fostered by the designs was Takopi’s greatest asset.

While they weren’t regular reference sheets, I’d also add 10+10’s design sensibilities as an important factor in the adaptation’s success. Originally slated to give special treatment to a scene in the fifth episode, the way they processed it left such a strong impression that series director Shinya Iino asked to retroactively apply it to previous ones as well. This was the birth of the Happy Artist role, a fun credit that was always used to render the titular alien’s optimistic worldview. In a show with children who have been denied a regular, joyful childhood, the choice to portray its POV as a picture book that a standard kid might read with their happy family hits hard. Takopi was always a sharp series, and the choices in adaptation only refined that edge.

And Yohei Kameyama’s designs for Milky☆Subway? That’s just nonchalant genius, man.

Honorable Mentions:

  • Good animation designs will often have an inherent movement style built into their bones; one that should ideally not be too narrow, because you don’t want to dictate exactly what other artists will do, but still helpful guidance when they’re wondering how to articulate it. In some cases, you can appreciate the geometrical forms they could be broken into when animating them. In the case of Yaiba, thanks to Yoshimichi Kameda and Takeshi Maenami, there is essentially no degree of abstraction in that process—the designs, in their default forms, are already a collection of clear shapes to use for its Kanada-school frenzy. It’s a style built into the core of the show itself, and that’s pretty cool.
  • I could have deservedly thrown Yano-kun’s Ordinary Days into categories like best aesthetics as well, given the understated beauty of its color design, but ultimately decided that its crown jewel was Toshimasa Kaiya’s design work. The fine-tuning of detail level when approaching the manga’s illustrations, the solid supervision, and the beautiful processing of the linework make this show the type that has greatly overlooked character art excellence. Maybe if it had been Yano-kun’s Ordinary Fighting Days it would have received more attention from self-proclaimed animation fans, who knows.
  • Non-contemporary Work Award: Kaiji

I’ve been trying to avoid giving this award to works I’ve organized group (re)watches on Discord, especially since it’s hard for them to surprise me, but this year I cheated with the supposedly democratic choices so much that they’ve unquestionably been my classic highlights of 2025. Subjecting newcomers to Akiyuki Shinbo’s Le Portrait de Petit Cossette was a lot of fun, especially if they weren’t aware of his leanings at a stage of his career where he embraced obtuse storytelling rather than trying to make his work as approachable as it is now. Given that a new Madoka movie is finally approaching, it was also a good way to get people acquainted with its older sibling. To counterbalance it with more SHAFT-adjacent comedy, Pani Poni Dash was another excellent show to revisit with friends; we all had fun, except for that one rabbit.

I’m proud that the choice to drag people into Revue Starlight has also been productive—as you can see by some other lists here featuring that franchise. Even if the apparent Bushiroad-ness of the project doesn’t seem up to your taste, anyone with an interest in Osamu Dezaki and Kunihiko Ikuhara’s directorial lineages should give the show a try. The movie in particular is, with no exaggeration, one of the most daring commercial anime ever made. Outrageous in its craft and hilarious in its setpieces, it’s arguably most interesting on a conceptual level; it’s a bold refutation of the thesis of its preceding TV show, coming from a director who aligns his first experience with a sequel and the role of actors who must reinvent themselves in a blaze of glory to remain on stage. I share everyone’s excitement about Sayonara Lara, but there’s a special juice that we’re bound to never taste until Tomohiro Furukawa heads another project. A cobra’s venom, perhaps?

All that said, I have to go with Kaiji as my favorite rewatch of 2025. I’ve always considered it one of the best shows out there; a sharp view of society that it knows how to process into addictive games, an iconic soundtrack and even better voice acting, inconspicuous but thoroughly solid direction, an all-around package that represents Nobuyuki Fukumoto at his best. What I found out, though it frankly wasn’t a surprise, is that binging sessions with other people who’ll get excited about the high-stakes gambling and Kaiji’s pitifulness may be the ideal way to experience the series. Before corporations seized control of what anime is hyped up or even perceived at all, it was shows like Kaiji that were held up as the gold standard within anglo discourse. Maybe we should return to that, so younger generations can reach enlightenment and realize there’s no greater moe than a compulsive gambler who doesn’t know when to quit.

Honorable mentions:

  • Shout out to our public broadcasting network for uploading the full 243 episodes of Dr. Slump (1981) a few months ago, which has allowed me to add it to the rotation of things I put on while in bed. Sometimes I accidentally fall asleep and then I wake up to Arale loudly being up to no good, but that’s a fair price to pay. A fun showcase of Akira Toriyama’s more comedic side, which people who know him exclusively for Dragon Ball Z barely got a taste of.
  • If you have to put an end to your streaming career and then have a chance to return to that same vtuber persona 4 years later, are the 80+ people who began streaming in the same agency in the meantime your seniors or your juniors? That’s a question sociologists still have no answer for, but I’m confident in calling Suzuhara Lulu a non-contemporary work that is also currently on air; chances are that, whenever you’re reading this, she’s in the midst of a 12 hours streaming session. It was cute to see younger viewers for whom her name was a legend others spoke of getting excited to watch her in real time. What they’ve gotten is what I always enjoyed: an impossibly obstinate person who will walk into the concrete of ruthless games until it collapses, not because she honed a good strategy but because even software eventually gives up too. A delightful weirdo with endless physical and psychological stamina, with a gift for comedic timing through simple motions in a virtual avatar. Konlulu, y’all.
  • Creator Discovery: Jun Fujiwara/Gen Kondou

I’ll continue to have faith in the future of animation for as long as I struggle to make a choice in this category; if someone acquainted with so many artists still makes a lot of interesting discoveries every year, then we’re probably still safe. These come in many forms, including people whom I’m genuinely late to get to know. Tokio Igarashi was one such case I wrote about, with the unapologetically romantic direction in Zenshuu #07 being my wake-up call. Kohei Hirota was another name I’d heard many times but hadn’t properly paid attention to until he became a fan favorite with his work in the final season of My Hero Academia; above all else, I find it interesting how an artist with such clear Yutaka Nakamura influences as an animator can also have illustrative tendencies like him, yet that side of Hirota’s work is characterized by stunning drawings that have a completely different flavor from  his idol’s.

Of course, there are also instances of artists who simply had no buzz behind them until recently—and who still aren’t paid enough attention even now, so I’ll gladly shout them out. Arisa Matsuura has been a character designer for about a decade, but it has taken until her work on Gnosia (where she has showcased exceptional draftsmanship and impressive directorial stunts with the opening sequence) that she has started gaining some traction. Even more unknown is still A Star Brighter Than the Sun’s rookie director Aya Kobayashi, whose playful direction (reminiscent of Morio Asaka in Yamada Lv999) greatly elevated the entire show. You don’t see a newcomer this confident in their show’s flourishes every day, so I’ll be sure to follow her career as it develops. For now, that’s going to involve a sequel to her first show.

Another recurring case is artists whom I definitely knew, but recently showcased new sides to themselves in a way that it turned those familiar faces into new discoveries. Because of the outrageous nature of the project, CITY: The Animation led to multiple instances of that. Ryo Miyagi’s newfound brilliance as a storyboarder, fueled by a series that dared him to intertwine many overlapping events, is something that shocked even his coworkers. But among them, the biggest surprise was Minoru Ota’s evolution. As an animator with prop design experience, it was known that he was detail-oriented. He showed his range by switching from directorial duties to the leadership position in Eupho’s mechanical animation. And yet, none of that prepared people for the madness of CITY #05, nor for the keen, unique vision he’s already showing for Denmoku. There’s no better way to summarize his recent ascent than the comforting discovery that he’s very, very weird.

In the end, though, my favorite encounter of the year was Jun Fujiwara… or should I say Gen Kondou, the name he was known by before he had to worry about things like conflicting contracts. In retrospect, it’s amusing that I wasn’t aware of him whatsoever when I had watched every single episode he was involved in; his production assistance days brought him across studios like White Fox, Pine Jam, and most notoriously BONES, which regularly attached him to notable animation talent. Along the way and likely through CG asset management duties, he started getting some 3D work of his own—mostly in creating layouts, which he did very regularly across Gachiakuta. Having become freelance as a director, he now gravitates around places like CygamesPictures and his previous home at BONES. It’s precisely there and with the aforementioned Gachiakuta that he handled what is most definitely his best-known work: episode #21 of the show, where he had to live up to the expectations of directing and co-storyboarding alongside none other than Yutaka Nakamura. Quite the challenge for a still green director.

As if to not feel out of place alongside the dramatic angles of Yutapon’s action storyboards, though likely drawing from his 3D layout expertise as well, Fujiwara’s approach stands for the spatial depth. It’s solid work, but as you can imagine, the real reason I noticed his presence was the first topic of this very long write-up: episode #08 of Apocalypse Hotel. Entrusted with the most ridiculous episode in an already outrageous show, Fujiwara gets to flex all sorts of muscles across 23 minutes. Contrasting colors and exaggerated angles for comedic drama, plus the type of crafty storyboarding that allows you to hide a silly punchline; and who’s to say that you can’t pivot from that to a heartfelt moment, in a show as lawless as ApoHotel? Fujiwara appears comfortable in many of the show’s registers, including a bizarre action setpiece that could only be as emotionally loaded as it is in a show this unique. While you can once again draw links between scenes like that and Fujiwara’s 3D experience, it may still be too early to tell what he’ll excel at as a director—and that’s very exciting! This is what the fun of watching artists grow is all about.

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