The Summer Hikaru Died / HikaNatsu‘s anime was conceptualized around Ryohei Takeshita’s adventurous direction, but without losing sight of the author’s core ideas. With a sequel on the horizon, it’s time to learn more about a fascinating production.
There is a series of terms you may have encountered when listening to the insight of anime creators, especially if they’re speaking for specialized outlets with highly invested audiences. This is not because they’re the most technical expressions. If anything, they’re slightly nonsensical when parsed through the literal reality of production, but artists involved in the process appreciate them as useful, evocative terminology. Sure, sakugaSakuga (作画): Technically drawing pictures but more specifically animation. Western fans have long since appropriated the word to refer to instances of particularly good animation, in the same way that a subset of Japanese fans do. Pretty integral to our sites’ brand. anime would technically apply to any work with 2D animation components, and that’s already interpreting the word with a narrower meaning than it can potentially hold. When you see people within the industry or orbiting closely around it use that expression, though, it paints a specific picture: that of anime where the prowess and intent of the movement, as well as the sheer quality of the artwork, are the centerpieces of the experience.
While that’s the most common version of the term, you’ll also come across more specific ones sometimes, as well as siblings that highlight different angles of emphasis. It’s fair to consider layout anime as a subset of sakugaSakuga (作画): Technically drawing pictures but more specifically animation. Western fans have long since appropriated the word to refer to instances of particularly good animation, in the same way that a subset of Japanese fans do. Pretty integral to our sites’ brand. anime, referring in this case to works where the physical representation of space is a major draw; whether it’s because that maps to the character’s psychology or through sheer technical excellence, such works shine through framing in a way that transcends their storyboards. In cases where the background paintings aren’t only beautiful but also given noticeable prominence, it’s not uncommon to talk about bijutsu / art anime. You can even find instances of editing anime, like Takayuki Hirao’s highly entertaining Pompo The Cinephile. As a movie that literally portrays the act of editing film, while also being built around Hirao’s quirky and enjoyable flow, it’s no surprise that this was the framing embraced by the director himself.
Again, these terms don’t refer to tasks unique to such works, as they’re aspects present in any production. They also shouldn’t be interpreted as the only important steps of the process either; looking back at the Pompo example, it’s clear that much of the visceral satisfaction from Hirao’s transitions begins with his own storyboards, much earlier than the editing phase takes place. What these expressions merely do is emphasize the aspect that will feel central to the experience for the viewer, which also makes them quite useful for directors who need to communicate with their teams during the early stages of a project.
And, right from the inception of The Summer Hikaru Died / HikaNatsu’s anime, series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. Ryohei Takeshita had something clear: it was going to be an enshutsu anime. Which is to say, a show emphasizing the immediate experience through tricky mise-en-scène and unique tools. One where the sensorial aspect becomes the undeniable centerpiece. That idea was so fundamental that he conveyed it not just to the team, and eventually to the viewers through the choices of execution, but even to the producers when the project was merely a pitch. In fact, it was also one of the very first things that Takeshita communicated to the original author, who found it a great way to enrich an adaptation you could watch over and over.
In an interview for Anime Corner, CyberAgent producer Manami Kabashima dates those initial talks about an anime adaptation as far back as May 2022—also noting that the production wouldn’t truly begin until much later, when the series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. cleared up their schedule around October 2023. In a larger conversation for the September 2025 issue of PASH!, involving not just Kabashima but Kadokawa producers Chiaki Kurakane and Toshinori Fujiwara, the latter confirms that he’d contacted various studios around the release of the first two volumes of the manga (March 2022 to October 2022) before settling on this team at Cygames Pictures led by Takeshita.
When it came to making that choice, the clarity of Takeshita’s vision gave the producers confidence. Rather than looking for a meek director who’d bend to their choices, they appear to have understood that capturing HikaNatsu’s appeal relies on intangibles best left up to brilliant creators with specific ideas. That’s why they found it comforting that Takeshita was very vocal and opinionated about the staffing process, preemptively gearing it toward that idea of an enshutsu anime. The upside of the choices made back then will be one of the points of focus when we delve into the episodes themselves, but before we get to that point, we ought to dispel a tempting myth: the idea that Takeshita took this approach to circumvent the limitations of the production.
It’s important to be clear about the fact that CyPic productions aren’t always as glamorous as many would expect them to be, and that a director like Takeshita needs no external motivation to get experimental. While the rise of a studio backed by a massive company and releases of dazzling gems like Beginning of a New Era project an aura of expensive, high-profile productions, not all CyPic projects are created the same. And to be precise, the large increase in their output as of late has caused many of them to have to cut noticeable corners.
Those limitations manifest in various ways; beginning projects early but also setting deadlines that limit the staff’s possibilities, refusing to enter the current bidding wars to secure top-of-the-line animators, somewhat skimping on support studios, and generally setting a lower bar when it comes to drawing polish than higher-profile projects would want to. Mind you, this is something they have gotten away with—not always, sorry to the sort of whelming adaptation of Cinderella Gray—because they’ve worked with many smart, resourceful teams. And so, the credit should go more to them than to the environment.
That much is true of HikaNatsu as well. There are plenty of exceptional individuals within that core staff chosen by Takeshita, but when it came to fleshing out the rest of the team, he made do with a more modest lineup. By having such a clear vision, though, he could rope perfectly fitting, still overlooked acquaintances into episode directionEpisode Direction (演出, enshutsu): A creative but also coordinative task, as it entails supervising the many departments and artists involved in the production of an episode – approving animation layouts alongside the Animation Director, overseeing the work of the photography team, the art department, CG staff… The role also exists in movies, refering to the individuals similarly in charge of segments of the film. duties. The premiere alone is proof of both their success and limitations. Its somewhat rough character art can feel at odds with the renown of the project, especially with the few great animation guests who make an appearance. The director has never hidden how the schedule became rather problematic as they approached the end, but it’s worth noting that they achieved a sense of stability in spite of those circumstances. Sure, the HikaNatsu anime can’t match the polish of the highest profile TV anime—let alone the illustrative quality of the manga—but it manages to stay around the same acceptable level for the entire broadcast. Had they been overly ambitious with their standards in those earlier episodes, the show might have collapsed in the rear half.
The flexibility that allowed them to adapt to the circumstances of the production is a positive quality, one we can link to both Takeshita’s team and CyPic’s hands-on management personnel. However, as we previously mentioned, we shouldn’t attribute causation where there isn’t. This is to say that Takeshita had always wanted to create an atmospheric, experimental horror anime—a genre he showed his interest in when talking to ANN. Frankly, no such confirmation was even needed, as it was something that could always be felt in his work; of course that the eccentric director who loves emulating handheld cameras was keen on immersive horror. There is a reason why he was so certain he wanted to make an enshutsu anime way before he’d even get a taste of those production circumstances: this is where Takeshita’s interests lay, and the nature of this series was the perfect excuse to tap into them.
It’s not limitation that has given birth to the brilliance of HikaNatsu, that much is inherent to the people who created it. Its middling production circumstances (very far from the worst when it comes to current TV anime, for the record) aren’t something to be celebrated, as the show might have been even better with ampler schedules and more resources. Those wouldn’t dull their edge, but rather open doors to the type of nuanced acting they couldn’t pull off, to immediately impactful drawings that could compete with the source material in that regard. If anything, it might have been even more experimental, as the unusual methods Takeshita is interested in tend to take a longer time to come to fruition. Though I wouldn’t take it for granted, seeing how this is becoming a trend within the studio, we can hope that its success motivates producers to back its already announced sequel as much as it deserves.
Given the director’s explicitly stated angle, we simply had to begin framing this adaptation through those optics of enshutsu anime. It’s the way he envisioned the adaptation from the beginning, and an excellent way to approach horror to boot. After all, we’re talking about a genre where the immersive, moment-to-moment experience is key. For as successful as it can be in hands like Takeshita’s, though, obsession over the micro at the cost of the macro could have ultimately made for a hollow experience. One where you’re drawn into every scene, but that you walk away from without a lasting, resonant impression. Had they also not considered its overarching themes and the alluring ideas presented by original author Mokumokuren, that could have been the case, even with the level of inspired storyboarding that we’ve gotten.
Fortunately, that is a hypothetical that was never really in the cards for HikaNatsu. For one, because Takeshita was also quite interested in the larger picture. You may have noticed that he holds other overarching roles apart from series direction, most notably as the lead writer as well. In the September 2025 issue of PASH, Takeshita mentions that it was CyPic’s president Nobuhiro Takenaka who pitched the idea of handling the series compositionSeries Composition (シリーズ構成, Series Kousei): A key role given to the main writer of the series. They meet with the director (who technically still outranks them) and sometimes producers during preproduction to draft the concept of the series, come up with major events and decide to how pace it all. Not to be confused with individual scriptwriters (脚本, Kyakuhon) who generally have very little room for expression and only develop existing drafts – though of course, series composers do write scripts themselves., which he readily accepted. As someone who had never shaped the very structure of a TV narrative on his own, Takeshita was looking for an opportunity like this; and since he was going to do it, he’d write half the scripts as well, sharing that screenwriting duty with Oki Murayama for the rest. Even as someone who was drawn to Mokumokuren’s work because of its novel horror expressions, despite wanting to build the experience around equally inventive storyboarding, this was clearly the stance of someone also invested in the story and its themes.
Takeshita wasn’t alone in the desire to retain the core ideas behind the series. Alongside him was, for example, the author who came up with them. Mokumokuren has said multiple times that, even though they don’t have previous experience with adaptation projects, they imagine that they’re way more involved than authors tend to be. This is something stated in the Newtype October 2025 featuring Mokumokuren, Takeshita, and Murayama, but most amusingly exemplified in Comic Natalie’s roundtable between said author and opening performer Vaundy. There, the latter explained that they had never attended a meeting with the author before he created a song for them. Although the production process was fundamentally ordinary, even when it comes to the presence of the original creator, Mokumokuren’s proactiveness in the regular meetings—and additional tasks like the color script for the opening sequence—led to a situation where the author’s treasured ideas resonated strongly in the adaptation.
Mind you, there’s a reason why we’re talking about the concepts the author cares about rather than the specifics of the source material. The HikaNatsu anime never hesitated to change the original story, let alone to adjust the execution to take advantage of the nature of its new canvas. In the aforementioned Newtype conversation, Mokumokuren recalls their first meeting with Takeshita, where the director asked if they could change things around right off the bat—“don’t open up with that!”, thought the amused author. In truth, both of them agreed about the necessity to modify certain aspects. Many of the proposed changes (including larger-scale ones) were born from Mokumokuren’s suggestions, or at the very least their close collaboration with Takeshita. I feel confident saying that some of these adjustments have elevated the TV show. And, as for the ones that I believe have more mixed results, I can still admire the clear, pointed intent they exhibit. Once again, the lesson is that authors understand the inherent need for change in adaptations better than vocal fanbases.
What is HikaNatsu about at its core, then? Its premise is as simple as it is compelling. We’re transported to a rather isolated rural setting, following the introverted high school boy Yoshiki Tsujinaka. In what we gradually find out was their village’s secret ritual, his best friend Hikaru went missing prior to the beginning of the series. A potentially tragic story that appeared to have a happy ending when he showed up again, confused but healthy enough. But that’s, indeed, just the surface. Whatever it is that inhabits his skin now is no longer the person Yoshiki knew. In fact, it’s no person at all; “Hikaru” is a supernatural being that came into this world without a sense of self, let alone human morality. The two become intrinsically linked in this direct reenactment of the Swampman thought experiment, which forces the reader—and the poor kids thrust into this situation—to ponder what truly makes a person.
As important as that side of the story is, those ideas are inseparable from something else: the horror of conformity and, conversely, the allure of scary otherness. If bodysnatching is a horror classic, so is linking a rural environment’s oppressive atmosphere to the supernatural. For Yoshiki, the asphyxiating everyday life didn’t start when “Hikaru” appeared. It did many years before, as he was fed up with all the adults telling him to cut the bangs he feels more comfortable with. It did when he realized he couldn’t escape the whispers about his family; his outsider mother, his sister who isn’t attending school, himself. And especially, it did when he internalized that his own sexuality is unusual and treated as a gross deviation from the norm. Hikaru wasn’t just his friend, but someone he was attracted to romantically and sexually. Now that he’s gone and has been replaced by an eldritch creature, things are about to get a lot more complicated.
In this regard, Mokumokuren has become increasingly more explicit about what HikaNatsu is, as well as what it isn’t. If you go back to read its initial one-shot, you’ll most definitely notice that many pages are exactly the same as the beginning of the serialization. What you’ll also notice, though, is that the two main characters quickly proceed to share a kiss and start as normal a romcom as you can have under such circumstances. However, that’s not the path that the full story has taken. As Mokumokuren has been forced to say many times due to fan pressure from multiple angles, HikaNatsu is a non-romantic queer story. There are multiple reasons that have pushed them in this direction: the belief that it’s important to dissociate queerness from romance, the desire to reach out broadly to all sorts of people who feel rejected by societal norms, and most importantly, Mokumokuren’s love for the other.
This final point is made rather explicit within HikaNatsu’s narrative, but I believe the previous conversation with Vaundy to be its funniest summary. Essentially unprompted, the author goes on to rant against Beauty and the Beast and all stories that follow similar patterns. As someone who is attracted to aberrations—perceiving their allure and repulsiveness as an intoxicating cocktail—the idea that a happy ending involves turning them into a regular human being is offensive to Mokumokuren. For as important as it was to define Yoshiki’s feelings in a precise way, so was to protect the abnormal, incomprehensible nature of “Hikaru”. A straightforward romance as understood by human society would inevitably involve the de-monstering of “Hikaru”, which is something the author abhors. While the series is very much about love, and anyone with an appreciation for spiciness will only see this scenario as even tastier BL, it’s important to understand why the original author isn’t enamored with labels. After all, pushing those aggressively is also enforcing that human-centric view that they dislike.
You could come up with such an interesting, internally coherent view and still manage to fumble the execution. But this is HikaNatsu, the series that caught everyone’s attention because its delivery is so inspired. Even with his own interests leaning in that direction, Takeshita may not have been compelled to go all-in on the enshutsu anime angle if Mokumokuren wasn’t brilliant at synthesizing those themes into imagery that sticks with you. Out of the many tools that the author uses in that process, there’s one kind in particular that was mentioned in every interview we’ve mentioned so far. And realistically, in most that we haven’t brought up yet, like PASH’s conversation with art directorArt Director (美術監督, bijutsu kantoku): The person in charge of the background art for the series. They draw many artboards that once approved by the series director serve as reference for the backgrounds throughout the series. Coordination within the art department is a must – setting and color designers must work together to craft a coherent world. Kouhei Honda. If you’ve ever read HikaNatsu, you likely know that we’re talking about its usage of SFX, onomatopoeia, and the general evocation of sound.
The moment you start reading the manga, the incessant chirping of cicadas submerges you into an increasingly more uncomfortable summer. They set the tone outside, and don’t expect the tone indoors to be any better; loud clanging of desks, friction with the floor, closeups to mouths as people yell to make them feel even more grating. Pages are littered with onomatopoeia that trap the characters into narrower and narrower spaces. Intrusive thoughts and societal pressure are expressed by giving a physical dimension to the words themselves, which weigh on the characters as if they were diegetic. And let’s not forget our first encounter with the supernatural—besides a certain main character—being an entity that takes up the form of a syllable. Either literally or in ways associated with it, especially if you were to adapt this story into an audiovisual format, it’s sound that is most strongly linked to the inescapable dread of HikaNatsu.
Capturing the full width of that aspect in anime would take more than great sound direction, but let’s not kid ourselves, it should start with that. Takeshita thought as much when he came up with the name of Kouji Kasamatsu to give form to the omnipresent, almost palpable sound; and just like with previous choices, also because he’d been personally looking for an excuse to work with him. You may have picked up on the fact that Takeshita is directly involved in this aspect as well, earning himself the sound director (ongaku kantoku) role. Meanwhile, Kasamatsu is listed under the non-standard role of ongaku enshutsu. Truly the keyword for the entire production, as it turns out.
In an interview with JINS PARK, Kasamatsu reveals how he crossed paths with anime, as well as why he favors that specific credit. His professional career began as a sound effects technician on television programs, though his real passion was film. And because he was passionate, he was also critical—which is why he found the sound in Japanese movies to be sort of underwhelming. Tinkering with a then cutting-edge Digital Audio Workstation that his boss had acquired, he’d do experiments like editing his own trailer of Patlabor: The Movie while replacing the audio with something that lived up to his standards. In the process, he caught the attention of the manufacturers of the machine, and eventually of Patlabor’s audio staff themselves.
Through that fun incident, the doors to animation and film opened for Kasamatsu. Being so particular, he likes to be involved from the earliest stages (as a proactive party in planning the soundtrack) to the very end, tweaking dialogue and timing on the final cuts. He’s aware that such a position tends to be labeled as a particularly influential ongaku kantoku, but since he’s not a big fan of the imposing aura those words have, he prefers to go with the more humble-sounding ongaku enshutsu. That’s how he’s been credited in multiple Ghibli projects, including the time that Miyazaki asked him to conceptualize all sound effects in The Wind Rises as human-made noises. He has become the exclusive, go-to person for the icons of theatrical Japanese animation. And with HikaNatsu, he’s been at the forefront of a TV anime for the first time in over a decade. You can count the number of times this has happened with one hand, and you’d still have fingers to spare. Even the character in the series who is a bit too fond of sacrificing parts of his body could pull it off.
In short: sound is of utmost importance to HikaNatsu, and it has always been in fitting, very exclusive hands. This emboldened the team to give as much weight to it in the anime as Mokumokuren’s manga pages do, starting with Takeshita himself. His direction across the first episode is likely to stop you on your tracks multiple times, but few moments have as much impact as Yoshiki reaching his boiling point. The accumulation of stress that he can tell no one about gradually causes the summery cicadas to grow louder, matching the overwhelming effect of the source material’s onomatopoeia. Eventually, they distort as everything melts together; words become sound effects at the tune of ominous percussion, a diegetic train signal dyes the whole world a dangerous red. And in the end, it’s regular sound that somehow stabilizes his psyche.
Another central aspect of the adaptation shares protagonism with sound for a similarly hard-hitting scene, especially for viewers who aren’t aware of the series’ premise. It’s what gives form to the true nature of “Hikaru”—a distinctly gooey, mesmerizing form. The moment that the adaptation was announced, every fan immediately understood why Takeshita personally scouted Masanobu Hiraoka as the artist entrusted with that specific role. His mastery of morphing motion in independent works has occasionally earned him a position in high-profile commercial projects, though it’s also that unique style that makes him incompatible with most anime.
Most anime, but not HikaNatsu, where he fits with perfect (un)naturality. Hiraoka’s fluid forms are mesmerizing, just like the current “Hikaru”, whom Yoshiki can’t stop being drawn to despite the clear danger. The changing shapes are reminiscent of the biological structures you might find in cells; and yet, they’re fundamentally different, matching the effect that Mokumokuren’s fractal horrors achieve. The anime switches to these special cuts whenever it intends to accelerate the horror, but they’re perhaps most effective when they coexist with the ordinary events. In that regard, few scenes are as memorable as the adaptation of the scene that initially helped HikaNatsu take off: “Hikaru” melting as Yoshiki asks who he really is.
I believe it’s important to see these tentpoles of HikaNatsu’s horror not as distinct elements, but as part of the interconnected net they form. Despite the sheer diversity of techniques that each episode director uses, they all coalesce into one unifying texture that is closely related to the themes we discussed earlier. HikaNatsu is sticky, viscous. A fluid that seeps everywhere. Just like the heat of the summer, captured so precisely by Honda’s art direction, Naomi Nakano’s color design, and Tomohiro Maeda’s compositing. Crushing blacks in the shade and uncomfortably tweaking the contrast might be undesirable choices in other series, but fit the quietly all-encompassing unease of HikaNatsu. Even Hiraoka’s role receives the name of dorodoro animation, after the onomatopoeia in the manga. Again, this closely relates the seeping horror with a form of sound. Both aspects share that texture, like the societal pressure that oozes around Yoshiki no matter where he is. All of it is unpleasant, yet you can’t look away. That is the complex relationship with the unknown that Mokumokuren wants to evoke.
Even with Takeshita being so on top of everything, the HikaNatsu anime wouldn’t be half as compelling if every episode in between the ones he storyboarded wasn’t an immersive experience in its own right. Luckily, the staffing process that had given confidence to producers proved to be as sharp as they’d hoped for. The following episodes show how the arrival of other directors doesn’t stop the production from inventively dancing around its limitations, reinforcing its ideas in the process. Mind you, the second apple didn’t fall far from the tree; episode #02 was boarded and directed by the promising Mitsuhiro Oosako, a Dogakobo animator who has absorbed many traits from the directors currently active around the studio. Since one of the most notable leads in that group is Takeshita himself, it’s no surprise that Oosako clicked so nicely within this series.
As Yoshiki tries to process everything that has happened, from the bodysnatching to a murder that most definitely isn’t related to “Hikaru”, Oosako emphasizes his subjectivity through recurring shots through his bangs. That’s the type of framing choice so obvious no one could miss its meaning, and yet, the episode’s most effective illustrations of Yoshiki’s headspace are once again those that translate the asphyxiating pressure he feels into sound. The most brilliant choice in the episode literalizes Yoshiki’s jokes about eldritch innards feeling like chicken, through the usage of live-action shots of meat. What’s initially amusing becomes haunting imagery when he cracks under pressure. Extending hands become realistic clumps of drawn chicken meat, with more real photographyPhotography (撮影, Satsuei): The marriage of elements produced by different departments into a finished picture, involving filtering to make it more harmonious. A name inherited from the past, when cameras were actually used during this process. interstitials turning the ordinary into something revolting. The repulsive drawings embody the uncanny valley effect that Mokumokuren often weaponizes, but through his subjective perception, we can still feel an intoxicating attraction. Bad things are happening, and our boy is tragically hooked on them.
In contrast, the third episode is a bit of a riskier staffing choice. It’s worth noting that Asaka Yokoyama is a big fan of the series, so it’s not a huge surprise that she understood its nature so well. The team must have agreed, considering that she already key animated the big twist in the premiere alongside Hiraoka. And yet, the way she ended up there wasn’t as safe as the series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. entrusting an episode to a pupil of his. Back when the anime was first announced—a few months into its production process—she celebrated it and immediately begged the team to let her work in the series. This wasn’t even a new thing for her, as she’d been publicly hoping she could draw storyboards for a hypothetical HikaNatsu adaptation since 2022, when only a few chapters had even been published. Despite having little to no directorial experience at the time, Asaka comes across as an artist with ideas, so the team quickly welcomed her (through animation producer Kenta Ueuchi) among their ranks.
That bet paid off, perhaps because she had truly spent years imagining what she would do with HikaNatsu if it were to be animated. In a way akin to the gradual escalations of dread in the manga, her episode establishes a clear rhythm through repetition. Recurring imagery and memories become more corrupted the more we see them, in a cadence that feels uncomfortable by itself. This builds up to the explosion of human feelings and inhuman instincts; conveyed through reimaginations of memorable panels, those recurring tools like sound and Hiraoka’s ooze, as well as her own additions like the linework that evokes inhumanity. Overall, Yokoyama’s sharpest choice may be the expression of the connection between HikaNatsu’s horror and the setting. Yoshioka’s forms morph from mountain to person, set to photographic materials gathered during every director’s scouting trips to the location of this tale. It’s in moments like this that you can feel how long she has spent imagining this series in motion.
Even with more measured delivery, the fourth episode continues to unravel the mysteries about the village in a compelling way. Rather than the adventures of Yoshiki and “Hikaru”, though, it’s about time we mention the part of the story that has seen the most fundamental changes in the anime. As far as the manga is concerned, both the reader and protagonist spend a fair amount of time completely in the dark, without any idea of the truth about the nature of “Hikaru” and how that relates to local beliefs, rituals, and the past. Contrary to that, the anime immediately dangles a parallel narrative thread. One that features adults in the village scrambling to solve this issue, the mysterious Tanaka, and even the existence of a company with an eerie desire to control the supernatural.
The loss of the disorienting feeling in the early stages of the original is a genuine shame. There is real value to the mystique you can only evoke when the audience doesn’t even know what it doesn’t know, merely feeling that they’re lost in a scary place. However, Mokumokuren and Takeshita’s interesting justifications make it easier to buy into this change. In spoon.2Di vol.125, the author confirms that they were the one who asked for Tanaka’s introduction to happen much earlier. With a second chance to visit their own story, they wanted to showcase the width of its world faster than they originally unraveled. Despite being a very particular creator and thus likely to plan ahead as much as possible, it’s clear that HikaNatsu‘s scope grew a bunch after its earliest stages. With the anime, Mokumokuren hopes to encompass all of it from the beginning, as opposed to a manga where you’re confined to specific viewpoints and plotlines at the beginning.
A fair stance, though it’s Takeshita’s input—as someone who was also onboard with this change—that I find most interesting. The director instead framed it in relation to the fact that the HikaNatsu anime doesn’t exist in a vacuum. The manga blew up in popularity coming out of nowhere, from a completely unknown author. The readers who stumbled upon it were immediately hooked by its initial twist, spreading the series through word of mouth to equally unprepared newcomers. Compared to that, this anime adaptation is being released at a point where HikaNatsu is a massive hit. Even if you haven’t read it, chances are that you’ll at least know about the gooey nature of “Hikaru”; and if you don’t, any promotional video for the anime will show as much. Since this environment lessens the original hook, he was partial to frontloading the mystery aspects so that new viewers felt strongly drawn to the series, even if they were already familiar with the imagery that once shocked readers. Again, I believe that the manga’s progression is more effective, but you can’t deny that a lot of thought went into this adaptation.
As Yoshiki continues to merge with his otherworldly pal more than is advisable, each episode director has a chance to flex their own creative muscles. Episode #05 is particularly interesting in that regard, since the workload is cleanly split into two. It begins with the storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue. More and direction of Wang Chihsia, which is at its most striking when using an endless recursion of the local medium to warn Yoshiki about the dangers of slipping further into the supernatural. Following up on that, regular Takeshita acquaintance Ryouta Kawahara knocks it out of the park as they face the spirit lurking in Yoshiki’s bathroom. The inclusion of onomatopoeia and media mix techniques feels like an extension of the tricks we’ve seen before, but Kawahara manages to go even further by reimagining societal pressure as oppressive, deeply unnerving piles of brains. Despite this separation of directorial duties, it’s worth noting that the episode has a feeling of continuity in its imagery. In the first half, “Hikaru” being too invasive is showcased by encroaching into a photorealistic brain texture within Yoshiki’s silhouette. And so, when Kawahara delves into Yoshiki’s anxieties through similar imagery, it feels like an escalation rather than an unprompted turn.
The sixth episode is instead led by an in-house regular in Fumiaki Kataoka, assisted in episode directionEpisode Direction (演出, enshutsu): A creative but also coordinative task, as it entails supervising the many departments and artists involved in the production of an episode – approving animation layouts alongside the Animation Director, overseeing the work of the photography team, the art department, CG staff… The role also exists in movies, refering to the individuals similarly in charge of segments of the film. duties by Shinya Kawabe. It begins on a more contemplative note, leaning on tricks like associating the movement across physical space to metaphorical sliding in and out of memories, as well as shifts in tone. You can only go so far in this show before things get really tense, though, and so that calmer delivery makes way for more unsettling framing. “Hikaru” feels like a member of their group of friends at school may have found out about its nature and nearly kills her, being stopped at the last second by Yoshiki. The latter is forced to accept that the person he cared for is long gone, replaced by a creature who doesn’t even comprehend the concept of life, let alone its weight. To complete HikaNatsu’s contradictory puzzle, the episode dedicates a gorgeous sequence to illustrate the world as perceived by this otherworldly being. At a point where Yoshiki fears “Hikaru” may be beyond redemption, with inhumanity becoming synonymous with ruthlessness, there is so much beauty to its perception. Mokumokuren can rest assured—this show really gets the conflicting nature they wanted to capture.
Following up on that, episode #07 marks the return of Takeshita to storyboarding duties. This was an episode brought up by multiple staff members as the one they’d been looking forward to, and it’s easy to understand why. It’s also among the ones that begin on a quieter note, but you can immediately tell that something is off. That numb dread continues until we see that, in his desperation to take responsibility for the monster he has been hiding, Yoshiki attempts to kill “Hikaru”. The most viscerally upsetting moment in Takeshita’s delivery isn’t Yoshiki’s failure to do so, but “Hikaru” responding by tearing himself apart, making himself less dangerous so that he can remain with Yoshiki. As he accepts this deal, proposing to research its true nature, Takeshita’s direction takes a turn for the ominous; did you expect a comforting, pleasantly romantic framing? Sorry, we do things a bit messier over here.
Through his contributions to anime like 86, KoiAme, and G-Witch’s first cours, Ryo Ando has become a bit of a favorite on this site; and for the record, because of Pripara and Love Live as well, since those are the ones that actually tell us about his directorial school. Skilled as he is, being entrusted with an episode sandwiched by high-priority moments in the story forced him to take a more moderate stance for HikaNatsu #08. Regardless, you can still feel his compositing-focused direction with a particularly red sunset; dyed in the blood corresponding to the first murder by “Hikaru”, with consequences it still isn’t capable of understanding. Those two aren’t the only ones casting eerie shadows either, as Tanaka has investigated enough to find out that they’re involved with the supernatural happenings in the village. As its ghoul nearly catches them, the usual unnatural sound is accompanied by appropriately inhuman movement.
While other regulars had to assist him this time around, episode #09 marks the return of Oosako to directorial duties. This seems to confirm the suspicion that he’s a very effective sponge. Not one that regurgitates the exact same tricks used around it, but rather one that absorbs from its surroundings and synthesizes new things. Using the camera’s physical traversal (and putting that reference footage to good use) to transition through different points in time is something we’ve observed in previous episodes, but Oosako’s touch makes it all more gripping. Even the supernatural equivalent of a heads-up can become an unsettling relay of techniques. The reason why the staff were particularly giddy about the broadcast of this episode, though, was to feast upon people’s reactions as the protagonists’ investigation is truncated… and so is someone’s head, when Tanaka arrives and beheads “Hikaru”. Oh dear.
The tension from that event immediately carries over to episode #10, which was effectively co-produced by studio NUT. Its mainstay creators Yutaka Uemura and Hitomi Taniguchi storyboarded it, and the studio was involved in its management as well, so it’s fair to say that it draws a meaningful amount from a different company altogether. There’s always a risk of diluting your carefully crafted identity when reaching out, but the first scene should be enough to lessen those worries. Again, you only need to witness the role of sound in establishing the chaos of the moment. As the two recover, surprisingly left alone by Tanaka, the episode leans on striking imagery to give some spice to the investigation of the legends behind “Hikaru”. Even in that regard, it understands that it would be a betrayal of HikaNatsu’s identity if they uniformly stuck to a more standard style. By using the adaptation’s favorite tools and boarding a few remarkable shots, an episode conceived elsewhere manages to slot in nicely within this show. Better than the actual outsiders do in this village, at any rate.
After that, episode #11 is the calm before the storm. It provides the closest thing to concrete answers about the origins of “Hikaru” that we’ll get in this season, and while it’s at it, its best approximation to standard character narratives as well. Watching Yoshiki approach a father he has hated by recognizing his traits in someone who has fumbled their relationships, processing his own feelings for the real Hikaru by telling someone else about him… it all feels like a moment of straightforwardness, within a series where everything tends to be delightfully (but exhaustingly) complicated.
And indeed, this feel-good moment ends halfway through the episode. Through the neck wound Tanaka left as a present to “Hikaru”, its most dangerous instincts begin leaking. With it, and under the direction of Aimi Yamauchi, so do the more radical stylistic choices; the Hiraoka-like morphing horrors, the aggressive sound direction, and involved camerawork to enhance the chase. Although the situation is quickly under control, “Hikaru” is shocked over having come close to harming Yoshiki yet again. It may lack a human grasp of mortality, but it understands that Yoshiki’s death would put an end to a relationship it treasures. And so, it makes a decision: it’ll leave this village, hopefully attracting all the supernatural beings away from Yoshiki in the process. Incidentally, the production of this episode was managed by friend of the site Hayato Kunisada aka eichiwai, which explains the much higher participation of animators recruited online. Solid job, at a point where the schedule had clearly decayed.
The situation wasn’t any easier for Takeshita in the finale, but that didn’t stop him from writing, storyboarding, and directing it on his own. Right off the bat, he nails the melancholy of a planned goodbye. His casual emphasis on the elements that represent the end of a school term coincides with “Hikaru” bidding goodbye to everything that has conformed its human-like routine for the entire show. Subtlety has hardly been his game across this project, though, so he quickly shifts to the real footage he recorded in the setting to depict “Hikaru” and Yoshiki’s promised trip to the ocean. This, of course, recontextualizes the show’s ending sequence—one he directed and storyboarded himself as well. While its mixed media and focus on real-life locations had always felt fitting for the HikaNatsu anime, it’s only with the details revealed by the final episodes that the meaning of their destination (and their clothes!) hits.
The final conversation between the two leads starts with ingenious Takeshita storyboarding. As “Hikaru” talks about its otherworldly nature to make a point about needing to leave, the camera travels through a body overlaid with nightmarish textures. However, when it reveals that this is something it wants to do to keep Yoshiki safe, it pulls away from its eye to reveal a regular, kind-looking boy. Although Mokumokuren keeps denouncing human values as the absolute, singular form of goodness, there’s no denying that the being hidden in Hikaru’s body is dangerous. And so, it doesn’t feel like a misstep to use its inhuman appearance to signal threats.
That said, Yoshiki is in too deep to accept a safe, standard human life. He’s someone who has always felt like a bit of a monster who hides his real self—our poster boy for internalized homophobia—and thus felt kinship for a being like “Hikaru”. Through imagery that is reminiscent of previous visual synthesizations of societal pressure, his reflection appears to agree with this proposal. And by his reflection, I mean a deeply unsettling figure with its mouth swapped for a real person’s; thanks for the nightmares, Takeshita. After his refusal to part ways (and a fight that mirrors one he had as a child with the real Hikaru), Yoshiki embracing his own twisted feelings is conveyed through the overlap of a clearly drawn silhouette over that photorealistic body. Again, the two natures that always coexist in HikaNatsu. As they swear to remain together despite their messy situation, their moment of intimacy is likely animated by the superlative Takashi Kojima. It’s rougher work than we’re used to from him, though understandably so given the circumstances of the production. But most importantly, it captures how much this relationship means for both of them.
That puts an end to an excellent first season of HikaNatsu; not without its flaws and limitations, but so inspired as an adaptation that those become minor inconveniences at worst. Again, this isn’t to say that we shouldn’t hope for the better—especially given that the timing for the sequel will be somewhat tricky. It’s worth pointing out that Mokumokuren planned the series around 10 volumes, with this show adapting the first five thus far. The immediate announcement of a sequel makes it sound like it’ll come in the form of a second season, which would complete the series while keeping a consistent sense of pacing.
How could they adapt events that won’t be published until late 2026 or perhaps even 2027 and still broadcast it in a timely fashion, though? The arrangement could be as simple as Mokumokuren sharing undisclosed information with them. A detail we’ve neglected to mention is that something along those lines has already happened. The specifics of the design for characters like Yoshiki’s mother were something that the author was particular about; after all, she’s meant to feel like an outsider whom the village never accepted. Despite being around for the early events, the manga avoided depicting her face for a long time, meaning that she didn’t have a visible design by the time the production of the anime started. Given that its team found it necessary to feature her properly—obscuring her face constantly might have come across more unnaturally than in the manga—Mokumokuren sent them extensive design sheets for a character manga readers had yet to see properly.
Of course, sharing a design and detailing the entire story aren’t quite on the same level, but I have my suspicions that Mokumokuren has already been instructing Takeshita in that regard. The two have worked too closely to keep secrets, especially given that a lack of knowledge about future events could have caused accidental incongruences in the anime. Since it’s clear that they always planned a full adaptation, and considering how we’re dealing with an author who plans everything obsessively, I would bet on this being their strategy; otherwise, they immediately announced a sequel that everyone would have to wait 3+ years for. This strategy would allow for a timely release of the sequel, though with a bit of an unforgiving production schedule attached to it. We’ve seen what this team could accomplish with limited resources and time, but as the story gets even crazier, I’d love to see more confident support from the studio and committee. Let this team cook something unsettling, bewitching, and possibly deadly for all of us.
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