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Who Comes Up With Anime’s Openings & Endings? The Impressive Sequences Of The Present And The Historical Evolution Of Their Creators – Gdrivenime

June 29, 2025 0Comments


Spring 2025 is coming to an end, and with it, a lot of incredible opening and ending sequences. It’s time to delve deep into those works and their creators, but even more importantly, how the state of the industry and commercial/viewer expectations have changed who conceives anime’s OP/ED.

Shoushimin S2: An unsurprisingly evocative ending hides a jaw-dropping opening

[Opening link] [Ending link]

If there’s one thing that Shoushimin Series could quite literally take for granted, it’s a stylish ending sequence directed by Tao Tajima. As we’ve discussed before, Tajima’s way of shooting live-action footage and then tweaking the lighting manages to draw ever so slightly supernatural vibes out of everyday scenery, which savvy anime creators have exploited to great effect. Most notoriously, he has been a regular contributor to Kunihiko Ikuhara’s modern works at studio Lapintrack; perhaps the most obviously synergistic pairing you could imagine, as Ikuni already was the number one figure of magical realism in anime. Given that the studio’s CEO—the unusually multitalented Teruko Utsumi—also values mixed media art, you can bet on Lapintrack capitalizing on that relationship with Tajima whenever they have an excuse.

Perhaps it’s not as direct a connection as the thematic bridges between Ikuni and Tajima, yet Shoushimin does indeed provide a good excuse. Honobu Yonezawa thrives writing grounded mystery and that much applies to this series as well, but the entire crux of its story is observing two naturally eccentric individuals traverse these mundane problem-solving scenarios while trying (and failing) to become ordinary themselves. Through its mostly commonplace landscapes that feel ever so slightly off once filtered and overlaid with 2D characters, Tajima sums up the vibe of the series in an ending I considered one of the best of 2024. Shoushimin returning for its second part this year most definitely meant that we’d get a new Tajima sequence, so I expected that to be one of its highlights.


Mind you, those expectations weren’t wrong: Tajima has returned with a sequence that captures the same vibes, while also channeling the increasing sense of danger in the narrative. Perhaps the shifts in the song don’t work quite as well in the visuals that attempt to match them, but it’s a great ending nonetheless. It is, also, not even close to the amazing surprise of an opening led by Kyouhei Ishiguro. His career has been in a bit of a weird limbo ever since the release of Words Bubble Up Like Soda Pop—which itself was shelved for well over a year after the production finished due to the pandemic—and a Bright anime that is best forgotten. Perhaps because of that, viewers at large aren’t aware of their talent as they used to be.

For the last few years, Ishiguro has mostly focused on openings and endings as a guest contributor. Despite this impasse in his career, fans of the director are likely aware that those sequences have often been built around interesting ideas. They weren’t the flashiest so he might not have stood out like he used to just a few years ago, but his special touch had by no means vanished. In fact, he had apparently improved to the point that he could nonchalantly drop perhaps the greatest thing he’s ever created, and certainly one of the most impressive openings in modern TV anime.

For as much as I emphasize the shock of witnessing something so good that it seems to dwarf an already impressive resume, it’s worth noting that stylistically, not everything in this opening is a surprise. For starters, there’s a palpable influence by Masashi Ishihama; most clearly in the usage of colorful silhouettes, but familiar down to the type of motion graphics that have defined the aesthetic of openings like Yama no Susume’s. Ishihama was one of the greatest contributors to Ishiguro’s own shows, not only when it comes to openings but also excellent episodes. Given that relationship, a degree of influence eventually rearing its head felt like a given. Unlike some Ishihama protegees who have gone all the way on iterating on his unmistakable intros—like the Persona Q2 opening by Takashi Kojima, who incidentally solo key animated one of those collaborations between Ishiguro and Ishihama—he has been more measured in the deployment of those familiar stylizations.

In fact, one of the greatest strengths of this Shoushimin opening is how diverse it feels. Colorful silhouettes, morphing paint, 2D characters interacting with reality and animation assets, all sorts of 3D work, renderings of the characters that range from the default look of the show to paintings that are on their own already a stylistic cocktail, you name it. An interesting aspect in all of this is that, especially for the approaches that would normally entail analog materials, many of these sequences are emulating those techniques. Although there is intrinsic value in physical art so I wouldn’t cheer for this path as an absolute substitute, when it comes to TV anime, it’s simply broadening the creative range by adapting those styles to tools that are readily available in commercial environments. While it’s possible for alternative artists to be slotted into regular anime—as of late we’ve been praising the work of Saho Nanjo’s team—Ishiguro’s vast experience in more standard works blurs the line between the extraordinary and the mundane. Again, like Shoushimin itself.


An opening sequence can succeed to different degrees by effectively summarizing its story and character dynamics, by distilling the themes of the work, or by departing from its specifics yet finding a way to arrive at a similar vibe; additionally, you can be like Ishiguro and operate on all those levels. We’ve highlighted its individuality and how that somehow sums up the core ideas and feeling of the series, but it also uses its high number of cuts to make specific nods to the story and the relationships at play. This second season begins with the lead duo having reached the conclusion that staying together only fuels the outlandish tendencies that won’t allow them to be normal, so they separate… in a clearly hopeless act, as it’s gradually clearer that they share a plane of reality only with each other. The opening constantly alludes this through cutouts and negative space—they quite literally don’t exist in the real world—plus overlapping materials that inevitably bring them together.

Although never subtle, the depth of references to the events in this season only becomes apparent once the viewer has full knowledge of what’s going on. The countless instances of fire were as easy to spot as the ones to cars are; you don’t need to be the brightest to make the link between those and the arcs being built around arson and a traffic accident. It might be more satisfying, however, to realize why a certain bright character is shown casting shadows—and why there are specifically three of them for that matter. One simple shot, in retrospect, can summarize two people proactively pursuing others, yet making mistakes that the colors themselves allude to. One individual was simply cold, blue, while the person whose boundaries a fool disrespectfully invaded is such a red devil she could sue Manchester United. His clueless appearances have a bright, juvenile naivety you find nowhere else in the opening, while his supposed partner looks terrifying because… well, that’s Osanai, nothing to explain here. Even that shot packs a neat nod to a key detail, though! So does this one where you can see Yorushika‘s logo in her eye, as expected from a band so blessed that they got this song animated into two entirely different, cool short films.

In the end, this is an opening that feels like it could only exist within Shoushimin, hence why it’s also a combination of styles that you haven’t seen before. Not every show is rich enough for a director to dig so successfully into it, but if Ishiguro is up for the challenge, I’d love to see him continue to contribute sequences like this for other titles. Or who knows, perhaps lead an interesting one of his own again!

Witch Watch‘s opening, the next iterative step in Megumi Ishitani’s brilliant career?

[Opening link]

Fandoms have short spans, as well as a tendency to reduce artists to their biggest hits. It’s not as if associating Megumi Ishitani with One Piece is particularly wrong; that’s the franchise where she has concentrated her efforts in recent years, leading to results so dazzling we’ve had to write about them over and over on this site. While Oda’s canvas has been one to offer her the possibility of growth and refinement, it wasn’t what made her a brilliant creator—neither was her climactic episode in Dragon Ball Super, the event that made her popularity grow by orders of magnitude.

8 years ago, when she was merely an assistant in that series, we already introduced Ishitani to the world as a name to look out for (alongside someone else we’ll see later in this piece) because her potential was simply that obvious. It’s not every day that you encounter an artist with both the technical ability to shine to this degree and the magnetism to attract outstanding teams wherever they go, but that is precisely the case for Ishitani. You shouldn’t interpret this development as her breaking her relationship with One Piece, but it’s a moment to understand that she was brilliant before crossing paths with Luffy, and will continue to be even as their careers diverge. This might sound outrageous if your view of anime only encompasses as far as your favorite show, but there was never a timeline where Kunihiko Ikuhara directed Sailor Moon for life, where Miyazaki turned into a mere franchise rotation member. Consider Witch Watch’s opening a special, preliminary taste of what’s inevitably coming.

Mind you, what it previewed isn’t necessarily the type of work we’re bound to see Ishitani work for in the future (not much of a change in that regard when Witch Watch is another WSJ series), but rather the phenomenon of a somewhat gated creator opening up to new pools of talent. We recently experienced one of the most extreme examples of that with Naoko Yamada’s departure from Kyoto Animation, after a long tenure at the most tightly sealed studio in anime. People who had admired her work for ages but could never work with her due to the studio’s in-house policies rushed in to work with their suddenly available idol—and the same thing happened from her end. While Ishitani and Toei aren’t locked in quite the same way, contracts with specific companies and preexisting relationships still rule much of what is realistically possible to happen in the industry. By temporarily moving to a different studio and working under producers with different contacts, meetings that were highly improbable before (despite the individuals hoping for them) suddenly became a possibility. And in many cases, a reality.

An instance that stands out immediately is animation director Masayuki Nonaka, whom Ishitani was very much aware of, yet realistically wouldn’t have been able to work with before. During that One Piece tenure, she has built a synergistic relationship with the still young star Soty; given the density of visual information in her work, a partnership with a highly efficient animator allows them to construct awe-inspiring, multilayered shots that are still easily digestible. Much like Nonaka, Soty is a very characterful animator, so Ishitani is able to focus on grand evocative concepts while knowing that lively acting will ground the result on a more tangible, directly emotive level.


Despite the difference in styles, the two animation directors share a key moment in their careers—which is to say, that the two were contributors to Dogakobo’s cute shows during their golden age. While Soty arrived at the tail end of it circa 2014, as a rookie bypassing the standard career progression due to his precocious skill, a then freelance Nonaka (who’d left JC Staff) became one of their ace animators. The characteristically bouncy movement in their works was often penned by him, as were the cartoony reactions with surprisingly life-like fundamentals. Without reaching his level of articulation, his work can be reminiscent of the amusing acting by Tetsuya Takeuchi; perhaps unsurprisingly, Takeuchi’s contribution to the opening allowed a certain producer to confirm that Nonaka is a fan of his. All their styles are distinct enough that you wouldn’t mix them up, yet those threads in between them make it easier to understand why Ishitani has been able to work so well with an effectively all-new team.

It’s worth returning to that producer to better understand how this special sequence came to be, as well as why this crew is so packed with talent. Ishitani herself is a big fan of Witch Watch’s author Kenta Shinohara—and so is her little sister, for that matter—so she was predisposed to accept the job, but such an offer wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for previous relationships. Now an animation producer at studio Bibury, Hidehisa Taniguchi had a brief stint at Mamoru Hosoda’s Studio Chizu; at the time, briefly acting as a production assistant on projects like Belle. That allowed him to meet Takashi Nakame, a mastermind in Japan’s theatrical animation scene who has only started receiving broader attention by attracting the masters of the craft who rarely touch TV anime to projects like Frieren.

Taniguchi didn’t hesitate to reach out to his acquaintance, while also remaining actively involved in the production of the opening despite being burdened with responsibilities for the show as a whole. He already floated the idea of appointing Ishitani with it, which made Nakame even more likely to accept the request as she had caught his eye with her boundary-defying work around One Piece. This also coincided with the desire of series director Hiroshi Ikehata; in an interview for the June 2025 issue of Animedia, he explains that he passed on directing it himself as that would have given it a somewhat antiquated feel, when he’d much rather have a fresher style that could double up as a music video. Given Ishitani’s affinity for that approach, as well as the producers’ desire to work with her, they extended an offer that had her temporarily moving to Bibury for the making of this opening.

When people talk about Nakame’s ability to connect directors with the type of theatrical talent you don’t see in television all that often, they tend to refer to animators. That perception was as well-earned in Frieren as it is in this opening; despite the short length, he managed to enlist the likes of Hiroyuki Aoyama, Ayako Hata, Hiroomi Yamakawa, Ryosuke Tsuchiya, as well as many high-profile TV animators. That said, focusing on that ignores how he also has the ability to reach out to color specialists with equally prestigious pedigrees to help Ishitani capture her highly specific vision.


The most renowned example of that broader gravity that he deserves credit for is art director Hiroshi Oono, who helped give this sequence a completely distinct feeling when compared to the show. Although he’ll rarely make an appearance on TV, he’s been confined to more exclusive projects in the later stages of his career. Not every producer would have the ability to reach out to him for an opening, enlist him as art director and painter for many of its backgrounds, and even visit his home to settle on a style that matches the director’s vision. Ishitani herself recalls with emotion what they managed to achieve: working alongside the art director of Kiki’s Delivery Service for a modern series about a young witch, as a very magical passing of the torch. Perhaps a wand in their case.

Naoko Yamada directing a new opening and ending is such a big deal that the news precedes the show they’re attached to

[Opening link] [Ending link]

A new adaptation of Anne of Green Gables due Spring 2025, this time by the name of Anne Shirley, was announced back in November 2024. Leaving leaks aside, that type of announcement is how everyone would normally find out about an upcoming title’s existence. That is, of course, not the case for this show. Nearly two months prior to that announcement, the documentary series Jounetsu Tairiku dedicated one episode to the brilliant Naoko Yamada, who had recently directed her latest film The Colors Within. As the program wrapped up, they showed Yamada working on the opening and ending sequence for an unnamed work… that just so happened to feature a character with such an iconic design that viewers immediately caught onto what that project was going to be. Given how they’ve since then promoted the sequences with press releases built around her name, it’s no exaggeration to say that Yamada’s presence is one of the main draws of the project.

How did she land that gig, though? The romantics in the audience were quick to notice that her career has been in conversation with that of late legend Isao Takahata. Their shared interest in people has brought them to explore similar topics, albeit with angles of their own that occasionally cross paths. Especially in her current freelance era, Yamada has been allowed to revisit specific works that Takahata had his hands on in the past; while it never came to fruition, he’d once planned to direct a Heike Monogatari anime like she eventually did, and now she’s been allowed to share her interpretation of a character that he had already explored in the masterful Akagi no Anne (1979).

For as interesting as it is to explore that relationship between creators, though, it’s a more tangible reason that led to this specific collaboration. In an interview for Animage’s July 2025 issue, Yamada confirmed what people who’d been paying attention to her recent career had already been able to guess. Which is to say, that it was an invitation by Anne Shirley’s series director Hiroshi Kawamata that made her so eager to accept the job. She went as far as calling herself a fan of his, happy to work in right about anything he creates. It’s easy to see that she wasn’t bluffing for PR purposes; back in 2022 and also for The Answer Studio, Yamada had entrusted him with the original designs for her episode in the Modern Love Tokyo anthology. In that same magazine feature, Kawamata leaves her a short letter where he compares Yamada’s craft to tailoring a beautiful outfit that could make anyone break into a joyful step—just like the protagonist does. Serves to say, the appreciation as an artist is mutual.


When it comes to her first assignment, Yamada quickly locked onto key concepts from the series. Wondrous imagination and curiosity are ideas as evocative of Anne Shirley as her pigtails and red hair, hence why they’re the focus of the beginning of the sequence. Yamada roots the former on something you can appreciate since the beginning of the story: the protagonist’s attempts to process tragedy by imagining whimsical alternatives. Even after acknowledging that, though, she made the choice to focus on the inherent joy in Anne’s approach to the world. Her gestures and the usage of floriography to illustrate how she enhances her own reality with her imagination are distinctly Yamada-esque, but I would argue that the most important aspect resides in the dream-like floaty feeling of the animation. Although that approach isn’t new to Yamada either, you have to look for it within fantasies like Liz and the Blue Bird’s storybook—the type of evocative tales that Anne’s imagination is drawn to.

As the opening reaches its second half, Yamada moves on to emphasize a couple more key ideas in the world of Anne of Green Gables. The first one is the passage of time itself, which is gradual and meaningful—at least when you’re not rushing through the story like Anne Shirley does—to the point where mere changes in height and hairstyles can move you to tears. With that same whimsicality from before, her storyboards use a spinning clock to lead us to snapshots of that beautiful feature, as well as the growth it took to arrive there. And more broadly, Yamada separates this final segment by building around memories, in contrast to the intrinsic fantasy of the imagination that defines the beginning. Just as important as Anne’s bright outlook is the fact that it allows her to lead a fulfilling life, so the storyboards are also meant to capture all the events she’ll be back to look back on with fondness. Admittedly, even those are conveyed with a sense of musicality that Anne herself can’t escape.

Moving onto the ending involves a radical change in style, but that doesn’t make the result any less recognizable. The approach is rather similar to the ED for Ping Pong The Animation, entirely animated by the same Eunyoung Choi with whom Yamada collaborates nowadays. This time, the solo key animation effort comes by the hand of her recent partner in crime Takashi Kojima, who also acted as the supervisor for the opening; something you might have deduced yourself by realizing that the protagonist feels like she got lost on the way to Kojima’s The Colors Within design sheets. One key detail in the process that NHK’s anti-artist crediting policies wouldn’t allow you to know was that Yamada herself painted the entire sequence, mostly using familiar watercolors. If you’re wondering just how synesthetic the director’s vision is, she describes the song as one that projects a warm gaze, and her resulting approach as one that intended to maintain that same hue and temperature—again, it’s no wonder why her previous film was about a girl who can perceive people as colors.

To understand this sequence, you ought to look in the direction of that gaze that the director perceived. If the opening collected most of the ideas that define Anne as a person, the ending focuses on the final key piece to the series: the Green Gables. The sequence begins with a gentle stroll across Prince Edward Island; vistas like the one you’d see in the carriage that took Anne to her new home, sprinkled with the details that sparked her imagination. However, it’s not necessarily about her. If anything, it’s about life around Anne, hence Yamada’s refusal to depict the protagonist’s face—an attempt to emphasize her physical actions as we might witness them from the shoes of her foster parents. In that sense, the final cut is a gorgeous encapsulation of intent. We see Anne running from the back, an image that Mathew and Marilla witness countless times since the moment she arrives. And also, one that reminds them of her growth, as that form gradually becomes taller within the show. But instead, the ending summarizes what she represents for them: the warm light that her distinct red hair morphs into. That is the true essence of Anne Shirley and the best possible way to end each episode.


An opening that shows that the love story between Kusuriya and China isn’t over quite yet

[Opening link]

We’ve been alluding to the struggles of Kusuriya’s second season over the last few months; problems that ultimately can’t stop it from being an enjoyable time, but that certainly prevent the level of polish that characterized the first series. Even if this sequel hadn’t been boycotted by the schedule imposed on it, though, it realistically couldn’t have competed with the otherworldly highs of episode #04. The artists led by China were effectively guests inserting a stunning short film within its broadcast, something they couldn’t have done for this batch of episodes because they had been busy… at the same studio, producing an equally sublime—yet stylistically very different—episode of Puniru.

That led to people expecting him to skip season 2 altogether, which is an understandable condition, yet fails to consider that he’s afflicted with a common condition: thinking that Maomao is an excellent gremlin. There’s also the fact that the specific relationships that brought him to the studio are still at play, as well as his fondness for aspects like Yukiko Nakatani’s design work, but those pale in comparison to the universal love for the toxic cat. Chinashi may not have been available to commit to the project the way he did during their first rodeo, but it’s no surprise that he found time to storyboard and direct a very nice opening sequence for the back end of this sequel.

Right off the bat, it’s clear that the main theme of the sequence is identity. This might sound familiar, but you can hardly blame different directors for focusing on the same idea when Kusuriya is all about people’s hidden sides and secret personas. After an intro that brilliantly uses the show’s logo to obscure the face of its protagonist—who isn’t exempt from having secrets—Chinashi deploys his main motif: fox masks. Those hold a narrative meaning that becomes clear as the story advances, but even before that point, the viewer will understand that they embody hidden secrets; even the fact that they have such an extraneous texture underlines that they’re artificially, deliberately obstructing the truth. You’ll see them hiding the secret identity that the entire series revolves around, antagonistic forces with much to hide, and amusingly, even a cat (beautifully animated by Shinako Takahashi) that turns out to be a clue in a grand conspiracy.


As the sequence approaches its chorus, that concept of identity makes an interesting pivot to become perspective. This leads to a reenactment of key scenes, though rather than seeing them as filtered through the protagonist, they’re reframed as POV shots in the shoes of the people who surround her. In many cases, their reasons for being there and acting the way they did (which we might not have considered when following Maomao’s view) are linked to these overarching mysteries, so the sequence invites the viewer to rethink the events. And for the last one, a sudden match cut returns us to the mask motif—and most importantly, it links to the gorgeous moving paintings of Geidai alumni Yume Ukai, evocatively informing the viewer about the world of Kusuriya.

The opening comes to a pleasant end with the type of emotionally loaded yet not ostentatious character animation you’d expect in a Chinashi sequence. Given this emphasis on identity and surprisingly important roles, however, it feels fitting to end by pointing to production assistant Kazuki Fujisawa. Despite having garnered no attention whatsoever from viewers, his quiet grind at OLM has recently brought him to work with exceptional artists like Ayaka Nakata, the mysterious Wazuka Komamiya, and of course Chinashi himself. His consistency as of late assembling such teams makes it hard to believe that he’s accidentally hanging out with superlative creators all the time, so it’s a name I encourage others to start paying attention to.

The joy of GQuuuuuuX‘s ending, and of being able to enjoy Khara’s talents for once

[Ending link]

Khara is a weird studio. For the most part, that’s a positive statement. Not adhering to the norms of a diseased industry is a badge of honor, and even more so when your peculiarities resemble theirs. Possessing a very unusual concentration of directors in relation to their personnel, for example, tracks directly to the outrageous amount of inventive talent packed inside one building. Their production pace is also preferable to many alternatives; from their safe position, Khara is allowed to marinate productions for as long as they require it, rather than rushing them out the door because the next deadline is already looming on the horizon.

However, the studio can sometimes take this issue to the opposite extreme. It’s not always that Khara has a truly active production that has progressed beyond conceptual stages, let alone one that involves that incredibly talented collective of artists under their banner. Although most of them are free to appear as guests on projects elsewhere, there is added value to allowing them all to work together in an environment with exceedingly high standards and the ability to live up to them. Even if it hadn’t been an interesting work in its own right—which I believe it is, for all its faults—the mere existence of Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX would have been exciting due to the team behind it. After all, it’s not every day that we get to enjoy a new series by Kazuya Tsurumaki, further elevated by the multiple generations of brilliant artists affiliated with the studio.

Those creators range from their veteran founder Hideaki Anno to youngsters once trained as in-betweeners at Khara and who’ve quickly gone on to demonstrate their talent; look no further than Gen Asano, one of the new faces of mechanical 2D animation and a main contributor to GQuX. Among those younger yet already renowned figures, we find Touko “toco” Yatabe, a multitalented artist currently on the rise as both a designer and director. Within Khara, she’d already earned Tsurumaki’s trust as one of the storyboarders for Dragon Dentist, even acting as an assistant director on Shin Evangelion. And as a designer and animation director, you ought to look no further than the contributions to her most beloved franchise—most notably, leading the pack for the hit film The Birth of Kitaro.

Ever since her impressive student graduation film circa 2014 (which she added English subtitles to a few years later), Yatabe has stood out as an artist with storytelling inclinations. The two sides of her career make sense the moment that you realize that she designs characters with their tales in mind; not exactly a unique approach, but one she excels at in a way that comes across as effortless. Yatabe won’t present you with visuals artificially loaded with information that winks at the audience, but rather with natural, charming slices of what feels like larger worlds. As a regular contributor to the show, working alongside Tsurumaki for some of its best episodes, she’s deeply acquainted with a world she summarizes in a lively way for its ending sequence.

Off the bat, you might notice that Yatabe borrows a motif that has been surprisingly important to GQuX. For as sleek as the spotlights are in this ending, the repeated usage in the show has been linked to the two lead characters being forcefully dragged into dangerous positions. Whenever they’ve been in turning points for their lives, as exploitative systems claim that those dangerous turns are their fate, GQuX has signaled it with invasive beams of light… which the ending reimagines into cool, sometimes even cute stylizations. Similarly, the dangerous kirakira that much of the narrative revolves around turns into a similarly colorful piece of décor within their imagined shared room, and into the lighting itself once the two happily host a drinking party. For as tonally separated from the series as it sometimes feels, it’s also distinctly GQuX-esque.

The jump cuts across that believably cluttered room make this happy fantasy feel lived-in, and within them you can spot all sorts of nods to the often more tragic events in the story—like Machu dancing with the dress Lalah wears in episode #09. And without requiring a high number of drawings, the adorable, characterful animation sells it as one of the most charming endings of the year. The team behind it is mostly composed of women running similar circles as Yatabe herself, but also GQuX animation designers Yumi Ikeda and Shie Kobori; once the ringleader behind a very popular Gridman ship, Mayumi Nakamura couldn’t miss the opportunity to work with her friends for a sequence with similar vibes. It’s hard not to smile when watching the results of their work, for a studio we don’t usually get to see in motion.


YAIBA‘s rollercoaster, through its opening and ending

[Opening link] [Ending link]

Using an opening to ramp up the excitement and an ending to help viewers wind down is hardly rocket science—if anything, it’s easy to argue that this is their default, logical role. That said, it’s not every day that those sequences work in conjunction as effectively as they do in YAIBA; something it achieves not by finding common ground in the middle, but by allowing each of them to take their approaches to the extreme. And right at the start, that means getting you up to the show’s frantic tone with an explosive intro that also encapsulates its director’s more methodical side within its bombast.

You may know Hisaaki Okui aka Geso Ikuo as a webgen animator who stood out in productions willing to collaborate with such young, then unproven talent in the early 10s. He was an interesting contributor in the likes of Ryochimo’s Yozakura Quartet, and I believe you can’t fully figure out his style without understanding his work in Dogakobo’s bouncy works of the era; look no further to his Hacka Doll opening being reminiscent of the Mikakunin music video that rewired the brain of a whole generation, including himself as he participated both in the series and this short film.

If there’s one collective of artists that is central to his career, though, that would be the Trigger-adjacent crew of ALBACROW that he co-founded and that we talked about fairly recently. Those rowdy environments shaped a wild, outspoken individual—enough to get sacked from his show right before its broadcast and then proceed to share spicy internal details every week—but with time (and through necessity), he has mellowed out. After all, he hasn’t only been a regular contributor as a director and animator for their works, but also been involved in their management and business operations. Ultimately, grasping those two sides of his helps you understand YAIBA’s opening as well. And maybe even more importantly, you get to smile at the fact that he had such friction with Production IG… just to end up heading the opening for the biggest IG Port TV show of the moment. Looks like he won that feud in the end.


For a show as energetic as YAIBA, only a sequence operating on the highest level of kineticism would have made the cut. Geso himself is prone to creating openings that feel fast and densely packed, though it’s interesting to see how he doesn’t always get around to it in the same way. His intro for the Blue Archive anime addresses the clash between overpopulated games and limited-scope adaptations by fast cutting like its life depends on it, getting away with such a sensorial overload through its beautifully clean aesthetic—a much better attempt at capturing its color in a broader sense (and also a literal one) than the show it’s attached to.

In contrast, his storyboard for YAIBA’s opening is willing to embrace stretches of relatively longer cuts or otherwise seamlessly connected shots; this is particularly obvious near the beginning, with the contributions by Yuki Hayashi and Shotaro Tamemizu combining into one sizable chunk of the opening with excellent flow. When it comes to this show, the fast pacing isn’t a consequence of needing to pack many references, but rather the quality that defines YAIBA altogether. And rather than more cuts, the strategy to capture that feeling is more into cuts; lots of sliding in and out of the frame, and of course, the thorough embracing of Kanada-style animation that makes all movement snappier and more eye-catching. In that regard, Yoshimichi Kameda’s corrections are invaluable, bringing even the animators who aren’t used to this level of intensity up to speed.

Similarly to the show itself, the diversity of styles it can fit under that Kanada-shaped umbrella is rather impressive. Yooto’s work is so angular and strikingly spaced that for a second, you believe the rest of the opening was round and smooth, while Takeshi Maenami doesn’t let his main animator role preclude him from standing out through distinct linework. Among all the blatant showcases of respect for Kanda and Kameda himself, it also stands out how Toshiyuki Sato’s segment pays homage to the original author; chances are that you’ve seen Gosho Aoyama’s monochromatic illustrations that highlight the pencil work, especially in his key visuals for the Detective Conan films, so it was rather sweet to see that approach reimagined into animation. For as renowned as Sato is, I believe he doesn’t get enough credit for his ability to dip into different styles or art forms altogether. He showed as much by being deeply involved in Bocchi the Rock’s arts and crafts projects, as well as in the aforementioned Witch Watch opening, where he carved a real print for just a second of footage.

Speaking of that Witch Watch opening, Geso‘s contribution over there also embodies how he has grown to be a rather calculated artist. Despite the tendency to associate this type of high-energy, manic work with off the cuff delivery, he is quite deliberate in a way that even Ishitani can attest; not only had he prepared a 3D previs of the shot he’d been assigned before their first formal meeting, but even proceeded to sent his own recordings of footage to iterate on it with different ideas. He’s the type of creator to meet YAIBA at its most intense, but also to give its opening a strict narrative and physical continuity that makes it flow in a way that makes sense to the viewer.

The moment-to-moment progression is satisfying because he’ll often follow the figurative lines of action and roughly match cut its protagonist through similar poses and locations. And in a genre where openings often devolve into a collection of disconnected characters and finishers, you can follow its protagonist in a self-contained tale of rushing to a confrontation, powering through the disappointment of his defeat, adventuring to power up, and facing his nemesis in a grand clash. It’s not particularly complicated—YAIBA never is—but combined with how nicely each cut is threaded together on a micro level as well, it becomes an opening that simply feels right on the whole.


Only the most laid-back vibes could calm you down after such a breathless opening and show, but thankfully, Atsuko Nozaki was up to the task. Just a few years ago, it was easy to argue that she was perhaps the most overlooked talent attached to studio WIT. Nozaki is an artist with a round style and cartoony inclinations, yet also the anatomical fundamentals to articulate true-to-life acting; add the two of them and combine them with the output of the studio she’s been working with, and she becomes a precious means of humanization for their often-gritty works.

Thanks to works like Ousama Ranking and her feline ending sequence for Great Pretender, people are now more aware of her big presence at the studio. However, there’s one side of Nozaki that most hadn’t gotten a taste of… unless they follow her on social media, where she exhibits that she’s an excellent illustrator with an exceptional eye for color. She has the ability to capture a tone through very economical palettes, and more often than not, her target is some sort of peaceful vista. For YAIBA’s ending, she chose to depict everyday routines bathed in soothing blues and warm yellows, alternating between naturalistic snapshots and Instagram-like cuts. The sequence captures her style perfectly, which is more impressive when you consider that it went through what she called an irregular workflow; Nozaki directed and storyboarded it, Maki Kawake drew the illustrations, then Nozaki herself participated in the painting after supervising those. The way it comes together as if she were the sole artist behind it, with the perfect atmosphere to counterbalance YAIBA’s usual loudness, earns it an enthusiastic shout-out.

Lazarus‘ ending: Mai Yoneyama’s surprising mood piece

[Ending link]

With its black silhouettes contrasted to solid, bright colors, playing to a snazzy non-vocal song, Lazarus couldn’t make its attempt to channel Cowboy Bebop’s energy clearer. Unlike the iconic Tank!, though, it loses the evocation of works like James Bond, and generally slows everything down to match a more melancholic sound. A more lethargic version of such a beloved opening might seem cynical even when they share series director in Shinichiro Watanabe, but I’d rather focus on its impressive ending instead. Both in the artist behind it and what they achieved, it’s a pleasant surprise that should more than make up for any lack of surprise factor in the opening.

As you may already know, this sequence was directed and solo key animated by Mai Yoneyama. Perhaps best known as an illustrator nowadays, Yonemai’s entire trajectory shifted when she stumbled upon the art of Gainax-affiliated artists back in high school. As she explains in this conversation with fellow artist Kei Mochizuki for Pixivision, she bought a volume of the illustration book series Edge to learn from popular illustrators… just to find herself more drawn to the contributions of animators like Hiroyuki Imaishi and Yoh Yoshinari. Having reached the conclusion that the greatest artists go on to become animators, she found her way to the studio where many of those people who’d caught her attention worked: Gainax.


Any excuse to share Houkago no Pleiades is welcome.

At the studio, she grew particularly close to a group of women—who didn’t exactly represent the majority of their animators at the time—with a shared interest in aspects like fashion. They adopted the name of Chuo Line Anime Sisters, self-publishing a handful of books in the late 00s and early 00s. Apart from Yonemai, this group included Apocalypse Hotel’s director Kana Shundo, its character designer and chief animation director Natsuki Yokoyama, and the designer for the also great Negaposi Angler (as well as the new Ranma ½) Hiromi Taniguchi. Which is to say, a group of artists who are currently on an amazing streak of original contributions to anime.

As Gainax effectively fell apart, Yonemai followed much of that team to Trigger projects, albeit in a freelance capacity this time around. Rather than sticking to animation roles, though, her success as a designer and increasing popularity allowed her to focus more and more on lucrative illustration work that nowadays constitutes most of her output. The sleek proclivities that had brought her together with those other fashion-savvy Gainax members, those roots as an illustrator, and the efficiency that animation work on tight deadlines had drilled into her shaped an artist you couldn’t mistake for any other. Stylish women or otherwise androgynous bodies, striking usage of color that is happy to embrace neons, and mesmerizing flowing hair drawn as if paint, make-up, and traditional effects animation blended together. A style that is so high on calories, and yet one that she can articulate in motion when she’s in leading positions for animated projects; the YOKU and COLORs music videos likely being the best known examples of this feat.

If there’s one word you’d never use to describe her modern style, that would be subdued. It’s not as if that restricts the moods she captures to high tension, lively ones. Look no further than the ending sequence she directed for Cyberpunk: Edgerunners to find those neons illuminating darker feelings—though again, hardly in a stylistically restrained way. She has also shown a willingness to embrace monochromatic worlds like in the aforementioned YOKU, though even then, she does so to weaponize the color accents. This is all to preface the surprise that was Lazarus’ ending: a melancholic, unnervingly soothing flyby of a world without color. Not exactly what one would expect from Yonemai’s usually bright output, yet such an effective way to bring every episode to a close.

Another reason why that sequence stands out the way it does is its incredibly bold commitment to a seamless piece of background animation, as the camera calmly examines every character and humanity altogether. Animating something like this presents multiple challenges, starting with the obviously prohibitive technical skill it demands. Maintaining the volume of entire bodies with a constantly shifting camera for a sequence this long, one that you’re going to key animate all on your own at that, requires a level of technical precision very few people have. In fact, you could argue that Norimitsu Suzuki is the only active animator in the industry who has proven time and time again to be able to tackle that challenge. As someone with a near computer-like ability to perfectly rotate any shape in his body, as well as the acquired experience to know when to betray that objective reality, Suzuki is simply on another level when it comes to this.

What about Yonemai, then? She has shown her ability to maintain the volume of human bodies even as they rotate, as you can briefly appreciate in sequences like that Cyberpunk ending. With this more demanding workload, her results ended up being undeniably rougher, though I would argue that you’re more likely to feel awe at the handcrafted artistry than be bothered by the imprecisions. One aspect I believe that she aced is the calm vibe it manages to evoke, which is hard to get across when they’re dealing with background animation. The tactility of this type of cut and the rarity of their deployment tends to cause the viewer to immediately tense up—a desirable quality in most of its usages—but given the tempo of the song and the mood that they want to evoke, Yonemai succeeds in soothing the viewer with the calculated, meandering camera. That accentuates the unsettling contrast with what is being shown, leading to an ending that isn’t only impressive on a technical level, but also quite interesting in its texture.


From solo animation effort to solo animation effort: Kengo Matsumoto’s emotive running in Cinderella Gray

[Ending link]

Just like Lazarus, Uma Musume: Cinderella Gray features an ending sequence storyboarded, directed, and solo key animated by a single individual. In this case, that leading role goes to Kengo Matsumoto, broadly known as an action animator yet clearly capable of more. The show’s opening—the comeback of Kotaro Tamura after a quiet year—does have its nice moments, applying the director’s cinematic stylizations to the more grounded side of the characters’ routines. This feels rather fitting in a series that begins with very humble competitions, in contrast to the grandiosity that Ume Musume stories have gotten us used to. That said, it’s Matsumoto’s ending that addresses the emotional core in a more memorable way, granting the sequence the unified charm you’re only likely to get out of near-solo efforts. In a franchise that has been shining in ostentatious ways as of late, this economical ending provides a different appeal.

If you asked people what is the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about Oguri Cap, Cinderella Gray’s amusing protagonist, most would answer that it’s running; others would say food, and they’d be correct as well. That first answer would be true of many characters in a series about horse girls racing each other, yet it holds special meaning for Oguri. Her backstory is as simple as it is effective: as a kid, she was confined inside for health reasons, unable to play around due to her weak legs. However, thanks to her mother’s careful treatment, she eventually was able to sprint outside like she’d always dreamed of. This process has given her a competitive edge rooted in a particularly flexible body, but for as fiercely as she competes when she gets a taste of professional running, there remains a fundamental love for the act of running that you might not find in an individual who could always take it for granted. And thus, Oguri Cap means running.

With that in mind, it’s amusing to think that this ending could have been completely different. In an interview for the June 2025 issue of Animage, Matsumoto explained that co-series director Takehiro Miura initially pitched a completely different approach to the ending, but that his interpretation of the narrative and the song it’d be paired with convinced him. It’s worth noting that Miura didn’t merely give him the OK, but rather actively contributed with ideas of his own as well; Matsumoto pointed in particular at the cut where the young Oguri runs toward her brighter future as Miura’s addition, during the period where he was revising the storyboards for the sequence.


The result of their combined efforts is an unassuming, very charming ending that captures the heart of the work. It begins with a first-person running shot, perhaps the most technically demanding one in the sequence. In that same interview, Matsumoto was asked about the challenge of animating so much running, and while he downplayed it somewhat because he found ways to use loops and reduce his workload, he admitted that walking animations are an endlessly deep challenge for any artist. They’re tasks you continue to face across your entire career, and yet they always present the opportunity to learn something new. Matsumoto also admitted to having a propensity for POV animation, so he was glad to have an excuse to put it to use at the beginning of a sequence where we’re placed on Oguri’s running shoes.

What follows is a nice summary of that backstory. While this is the least dynamic part, Matsumoto’s crafty tricks prevent it from ever getting stale. The refusal to hold lines makes the cute art feel alive even with the low drawing count, while the window to the outside serves as both a representation of the brighter life Oguri seeks outside and a showcase of the passing time with their seasonal variations. Most importantly, the choice to frame specifically these shots as 4:3 works on many levels; it’s physically narrower just like a childhood where you can’t play outdoors, it evokes the past in compared to the modern standard of 16:9 used elsewhere, and it enables the protagonist’s worldview to literally broaden once she’s able to run. It’s precisely in that cut proposed by Miura that the black bars disappear, dashing to the light with another POV cut that bookends her story.

The back end of the sequence is quite literally a victory lap for the protagonist, with another economical loop that still hides some interesting creative choices under the hood. Besides Matsumoto’s self-imposed challenge of handling the CG work himself as well, it’s the choices of color that are worth bringing attention to. He wanted a palette that fits the fresh feeling of the song, as well as an overall look that made it distinguishable at a glance from the grounded reality of the show itself; it had to be Oguri’s world, the place where she can run freely that she once dreamed of and is now attainable. Why go with that unorthodox mix of yellow and blue, though? The reason is simple: Matsumoto found out that those are the colors that horses can distinguish most easily. As always, Uma Musume’s commitment to its equine roots is undeniable.

Catch me at the Ballpark and Ninkoro‘s cute endings represent the charm of music videos in the era of Youtube

[Ninkoro ending link] [Catch me at the Ballpark ending link]

If you close your eyes and try to imagine a modern, animated music video on Youtube—not one that happens to be hosted there, but a short film made for the platform—there’s a specific look that will come to mind. Solid colors, be it in pastel form or with a more vibrant look, with a penchant for both contrast and cuteness. Which is to say, pinks galore! Design-wise, SD versions of characters will alternate with more striking looks, synergizing with storyboarding that also tends to swerve from full-body to close-ups. There’s a marked degree of stylization that allows for blending VFX with more traditional effects animation, and above all else, an aim for online virality that translates into catchy cuts like dancing performances. While that can require rather involved animation, there’s a certain economy tied to that style as well; everything is clearly built around assets that are expected to be reused, which is admittedly true of most animation, yet it’s not obscured here in the way it would be with the more naturalistic delivery you’ll encounter within a show or film.


Given that younger audiences are so familiar with that style, it’s no surprise to see it incorporated in commercial works as well. For one, it has a proven record of popularity, and just as importantly, the people making your cartoons are also human beings who have a decent chance of having gotten into similar videos. In that regard, it’s interesting to observe the ending for A Ninja and an Assassin Under One Roof, also known as Ninkoro. The broad idea of SHAFT’s in-house style is fairly compatible with all those characteristics we listed as emblematic of these music videos, so its ending is allowed to go all the way in that direction (down to featuring a song under the HoneyWork brand, a household name in that scene) without feeling like an uncomfortable departure. Interestingly, the sequence was led by a regular commercial animator—Rina Iwamoto, SHAFT associate who acted as its storyboarder, director, supervisor, and one of its key animators. Given the key role of the palette in nailing these specific vibes, though, it’s well worth shouting out Daniela Padilla as the individual behind its color script as well.

In contrast to that (successful!) attempt to emulate the artistry seen in a slightly different field, we also find cases where the exact same people in charge of those trendy videos are brought onto TV anime to lead opening and ending sequences. Independent artist Doromizu lent a hand on Catch Me at the Ballpark’s opening, but most importantly, produced its lovely ending sequence all on their own. By taking the two most recognizable colors from the protagonist’s design, Doromizu immediately gets that type of pop contrast that this type of music videos seeks. The cast is reimagined in cute, chunkier forms, but the animation—despite its fondness for loose smears—is careful to maintain the dancing choreographies easy to read, inviting viewers to dance along if they so desire. All in all, an adorable ending that feels representative of its era.

The opening that invites you to dance to Apocalypse Hotel‘s unique rhythm

[Opening link]

The theory of relativity ought to be true, because time spent in the vicinity of Apocalypse Hotel’s opening definitely flies by faster than usual. Part of that comes down to its already unusual commitment to one idea. Dancing may be somewhat of a common occurrence in openings, but it’s quite rare to see a sequence depicting a singular performance with essentially no interruptions. Even the couple of seconds that instead focus on the light leaving the protagonist’s home (just like its owner did) are tangibly set in the exact same place, making it all feel like one perfectly tight whole.

After dedicating thousands upon thousands of words to over a dozen sequences, it’s worth noting that this is the very first one handled by the series director—and perhaps it couldn’t be any other way, given how unique ApoHotel is. Kana Shundo, whom I’d love to discuss as the nexus for this show’s appropriately distinct team in another writeup, steps up as the storyboarder and director for the occasion. For series exploring the transience of things through a peaceful post-apocalypse, the opening will often be a quiet stroll across the setting accompanied by a song that may be content without lyrics. Even if it’s on the groovier side of things, it’ll make you want to sit comfortably on your chair rather than jump off it.

While that is a side of ApoHotel, its one-of-a-kind atmosphere also embraces many a ridiculous hijink to spice up the contemplativeness. Its energy bleeds into an opening sequence where the protagonist joyfully dances; first on her own, under a sole spotlight, but quickly alongside the merry band of creatures that join her hotel and expand its light. The way that each of them dances to their own tune is reminiscent of the wildly different cultures and organisms that meet in the show. Just like they do there, and despite those differences, they’re happy to chase the same goal in heterogeneous togetherness. Which is to say, that it rules when a group of weirdos do their own thing while hanging out.


To sell a sequence built around this single, straightforward idea, you’d need the type of impressive craft that ApoHotel is happy to put on display. Though it’s not ostentatious, the camerawork is bold; not afraid of demanding full-body shots that don’t allow for shortcuts in the dancing body, and also quick to frame the movements from tricky angles or spin alongside her. The skeleton of this performance is in motion capture footage—a more feasible idea when your parent company owns an entire studio for that—but that doesn’t mean you can take the volumetry of the resulting animation for granted. Just for that achievement, animation directors Natsuki Yokoyama and Ami Keinosuke deserve as much credit as Shundo for the success of this bewitching opening.

There are so many neat openings and endings we could be here all day

  • The previous season of Kuroshitsuji was blessed with an opening by Masashi Ishihama, rightfully considered one of the greatest figures in this field. Although his favorite stylizations don’t track to the themes of the current arc as directly as they did back then, the hope to have him back at a studio he’s often tied to was reasonable. You might think that missing out on him for this Emerald Witch arc might have been a disappointment, but Oka Okazaki’s new ending more than makes up for it. Their work often goes viral on social media because of its ability to retain illustrative quality in short clips of animation. This aspect synergizes with the fairy tale trappings, shining the most during the dancing sequences across the chorus; distinctly non-commercial feel to the animation, yet still impressive in its polish. Beautiful work.
  • While some shows struggle in living up to their impressive OP/ED, Mono might have the opposite issue—the series is so impressively put together that you almost forget that it’s surrounded by very solid sequences as well. The opening directed by Hokuto Sadamoto doesn’t just capture the lively tone of their escapades, but also manages to be just as unsubtle about its relationship with Yurucamp as the episodes themselves. Meanwhile, the ending by Yasuhiro Irie (invited by designer Kuerun after their collaboration in Healer Girl) set off to be a calm sequence… until Irie heard the song and his animator instincts kicked in. Even after deciding to use a 360º camera rotation for the chorus, he considered the possibility of relying on 3D guidelines for it, but in the end he essentially drew it from scratch. The result, quintessential Irie goodness. Worth the price of admission with just one shot!
  • The Shiunji-ke anime is the return of Ryouki Kamitsubo to series direction—something that means nothing to most people, and everything to enlightened minds with a taste for 00s to early 10s anime and SHAFT-adjacent works. While he delegated a fair amount of work for the opening and ending (the storyboard on the former to Toshimasa Suzuki, and the entire ending to Dogakobo’s promising Mitsuhiro Oosako), both sequences showcase Kamitsubo’s tastes. The specific usage of pastels and contrasting irotore should feel familiar, and even the imagery in Oosako’s ending with the screens infinitely splitting an image feels pitched by him. Worth mentioning that Kamitsubo himself is credited for its vector animation, corresponding to moments like the fun dancing at the beginning of it. And since it’s always nice to see him back home, shout out to Akira Hamaguchi for animating the money shot in the opening. You could argue that one also embodies his tastes.


  • Since we’ve reached the pervert zone, it’s worth pointing out that barely hidden behind a pen name is Naoto Hosoda’s ending sequence for Summer Pockets. Broadly known for his action expertise as well as the beloved first season of The Devil is a Part-Timer, Hosoda is also an important figure in (and a big fan of) adaptations of visual novels and bishoujo games in a broader sense. Interestingly, and despite his action often standing out for his ability to strip down characters to their simplest, most dynamic forms, when he wants to get spicy with this other side of his career he goes all the way in detailed volumetry; shots like this are reminiscent of the illustrations he used to draw for his memorable adaptation of Shuffle, which is by all means praise.
  • Food for the Soul aka Hibimeshi is a pleasant show that lives up to its explicit premise of being Non Non Biyori’s spiritual successor. Many key creators behind its predecessor return—most notoriously, its original author Atto provides the manga equivalent of storyboards and ensures that the gags retain the same excellent timing and childish (in a positive way!) sense of humor. Unfortunately, and perhaps with the exception of its ridiculous sound direction, the show is otherwise rather sloppily animated at P.A. Works… with the exception of a lovely ending sequence that they weren’t all that involved with. Shougo Teramoto, whose output is neatly split between commercial anime and commissions for streamers, handled the storyboarding, direction, animation supervision, color script, compositing, and a fair chunk of all the animations and backgrounds for this ending. A fun outing for the girls turned into a pretty, colorful motion comic makes for a highlight in an overlooked show.
  • Do you have that type of friend you don’t feel the need to constantly ask how they’re doing, because you know the answer is undoubtedly going to be very well? Let me tell you something: you do, and his name is Monkey D. Luffy. One Piece‘s new opening may not be on the level of its extraordinary predecessors, but director Wataru Matsumi takes cues from Ishitani’s work and repackages them into a sequence that combines that pure distillation of ideas with more cinematic aspirations. The POV shots of hands, first by Yuki Hayashi and later by Jack-Amin Ibrahim to somewhat bookend the opening, are the emotional highlight of yet another good intro. At this point, the news would be if they’d managed to whiff one of these.
  • Similarly, you just know that Ken “Leaf” Yamamoto is going to deliver something solid at the very least. His opening for Wind Breaker S2 isn’t immune to chronic issues in the genre; meaning, that it does feel the need to introduce too many characters and showcase them fighting no matter what. Whenever the sequence feels less pressured by those expectations, however, you get a pretty crescendo embodied by the usage of color. Leaf’s usual readability makes it easy to tell what he’s going for, while his elegance prevents that from coming across as too plain and basic. Not a surprise at this point, but he’s simply good at what he does.

The reason why we’re flooded with so many eye-catching OP/ED, and the evolution of their production process

If someone were to ask why this season has been so outrageously loaded with excellent sequences, the simplest answer would be to say that it was by chance. A lot of anime is planned, produced, then broadcast, and those final dates overlapping don’t even imply that everything else happened at the same time; the animation process of some of the sequences we highlighted today was years apart from others, so the fact that they all aired across this spring doesn’t mean much. Considering that this has hardly been the only time in recent memory with tons of outstanding examples, though, you start to wonder if there’s a more complex answer. As the epilogue of this celebration of so many magnificent sequences, it feels appropriate to explore the changes in the creation and perception of openings & endings that have gradually led us here, for the good and the less so.

Openings in particular have a long history of being deployed as not-necessarily-representative promotional tools. Generations upon generations of viewers have fallen for the bait of a gorgeously animated into, just to find out that it’s attached to a show that can’t even come close to the levels of technical excellence exhibited there; if they’re lucky, it’ll at least be a good series in its own right, making the misleading sequence an ultimate force of good. While that trick isn’t new, the way the lure is conceived has changed to a degree that long-time fans no longer recognize TV anime as they knew it. So, who exactly comes up with an opening?

The answer to that used to be a resounding it depends, but behind that disclaimer, there was a clear notion—the expectation that a series director (someone on the kantoku level) would storyboard and direct them. While instances of delegation have essentially always existed, the default assumption was that it would be in the hands of the leader of the project or at the very least someone in their vicinity; which is to say, a member of the core staff or otherwise regular contributor to the project. That was true for decades, and yet, you may have noticed that we pointed out how only the last opening we highlighted across the main section of this article was directed and storyboarded by the same individual heading the show.


To illustrate this evolution, we went through the Spring seasons of the last couple of decades as well as the current one, then split the sequences between those led by the series director (including their chief and assistants), ones by regular and main staff, and finally those conceived by a guest creator. While the exact numbers themselves don’t matter all that much—the lines between those situations can be blurry and there is variability within years and eras altogether—the overall trends they hint at paint a clear picture. When it comes to what we may consider modern anime, the results are as follows:

Spring 2005:

  • Series director opening and ending sequences: 56.60%
  • Key staff members and regulars opening and ending sequences: 32.08%
  • Core team opening and ending sequences (previous two categories combined): 88.68%
  • Guest director opening and ending sequences: 11.32%

Spring 2015:

  • Series director level opening and ending sequences: 49.11%
  • Key staff members and regulars opening and ending sequences: 29.46%
  • Core team opening and ending sequences (previous two categories combined): 78.57%
  • Guest director opening and ending sequences: 21.43%

Spring 2025:

  • Series director level opening and ending sequences: 35.11%
  • Key staff members and regulars opening and ending sequences: 19.68%
  • Core team opening and ending sequences (previous two categories combined): 54.79%
  • Guest director opening and ending sequences: 45.21%

Disclaimers: This is framed from a directorial standpoint, and further analysis would have to consider that guest directors sometimes work with the main team behind a work. Such arrangements can achieve results that feel representative of the specificities of the shows as a whole, as seen in cases like YAIBA. A more detailed analysis may require more granularity in the classification, although it’s also worth noting that you will ultimately hit walls of arbitrariness. After all, a guest creator who was reached out to only work on an opening or ending may end up helping on the show once that link has been established, even if they initially worked on it as a completely outside agent. In an industry so reliant on interpersonal relationships, the divide between the core team and outsiders can also be rather hazy. Regardless, this is a solid approximation to demonstrable changes.

As you can see, anime has left behind the days when it was essentially a given that its cool intros and closings would be a showcase of the ideas by the talent heading a show, to them being a coin flip between that core team and outsiders. If you’re wondering what the situation was like if we look further back, the truth is that these tasks were so weighted toward series directors that anime got away with little to no credits for these sequences; sometimes you’d only see some participating key animators, at other times the names corresponding to both sequences would be mixed together without specifics about their role, and more often than not, they simply wouldn’t be credited. While that obviously wasn’t great, it was way less of an issue than it would be nowadays, as you could safely assume the authorship.

When talking about predominant trends, though, it’s always considering the exceptions. Those have always existed in this field, and have been tremendously important when it comes to shaping the language of OP/ED animation. You can look as far back as the 60s to find notable examples—the one and only Isao Takahata directed and storyboarded the opening for Hustle Punch in 1965, despite not contributing to the direction of the show otherwise. The term opening specialist has been used among viewers to refer to a phenomenon that might not have been very common, but still happened enough times to catch attention; that is, directors who would be called specifically because of their renown when it comes to this type of sequence, even if they weren’t at all related to that project.

The aforementioned Masashi Ishihama is the quintessential example, having directed dozens of them since the late 90s yet only led a handful of projects overall. And more than the sheer number, there’s the influence, the way that artists like him have become the ideal that others strive for. In a season he didn’t participate in, we’ve still had to shout him out by name because his influence on the gorgeous opening for Shoushimin S2 was simply that strong in spots. Although you might be inclined to chalk that up to the fact that it was directed by a comrade of his, making it more of a direct influence than an industry-wide one, Ishihama-like traits have been appearing all over anime for years. It’s no secret that creators constantly have his work in mind when they’re entrusted with an opening or ending sequence. A similar effect is starting to happen with Shingo Yamashita, who shares a fondness for quick fade-ins and has been so popular as to alter the cadence of high-profile anime openings altogether.


Although it’s hard to pinpoint anime’s first opening specialist—again, this isn’t an official title—it’s impossible to understand the history of this concept without considering Koji Nanke. While his career has been more adjacent to commercial animation than part of it, Nanke’s occasional appearances in anime and his recurring work in NHK’s iconic Minna no Uta program (chronicled in this excellent article over at On the Ones) have made him a tremendously influential figure. The earliest stages of his career were actually within commercial animation, where he gained experience across various animation roles before calling it quits and taking a more independent path.

When he began creating openings and endings from the early 80s onwards, Nanke proved that level of versatility and then some. The sheer diversity of materials and techniques he was willing to tackle, even in this commercial environment he wasn’t fully submerged into, could wow the likes of Mamoru Oshii; crayon, oil paint, pencil, paper cutouts, and ingenious analog photography tricks all joyfully dancing to the same tune. And that is precisely what Nanke shines the brightest at: the rhythmic feeling of his sequences. Despite not going all the way into literally animating the song like he would do in his Minna no Uta contributions, Nanke’s sequences are so satisfyingly tuned to the songs that they’ll never feel complete if you isolate the visuals. That musicality in the context of anime wasn’t necessarily an invention of his—the iconic 1968 opening for Gegege no Kitaro proves that—but Nanke’s output was so memorable as to reformulate the concept of what a good OP/ED is to generations upon generations of artists. And that does very much include the ones we’ve been talking about today, as Megumi Ishitani is a huge fan of his and considers his work a major influence.

In a field where the norm is a more factual presentation of the contents and characters of the series, Nanke represents a more music video-like distillation of dynamics and vibes. Through sheer volume and cultural impact, those are best embodied through his contributions to Rumiko Takahashi’s golden trio of adaptations. Across Urusei Yatsura, Maison Ikkoku, and Ranma ½, Nanke was in charge of two dozen openings and endings, nearly always bookending the whole series by animating the first and last ones. It’s quite telling that even as those titles receive remakes promising faithfulness to the source material, it’s often specifically Nanke’s imagery that their intro and outros call back to.

Ever since his earliest contributions to Urusei Yatsura, you can feel that rhythm and the fun poses that accompany it, his design sensibilities with the big heads featuring lots of real estate to emote, and the equally influential usage of simple shapes in ways modern VFX still tries to emulate. The more he broadened his horizons and got used to sublimating the ideas of one work into an opening or ending, the more interesting the results became. By the time of Ranma, you have rotating cubes and PiP used to contrast the various sides of the protagonist, or a mayhem of cutouts and paint to literalize the relationship threads that make his life so chaotic. Even though Nanke’s work didn’t spawn an army of clones, as that would require his unique sensibilities and an almost unmatched, broad mastery of the arts, it’s no surprise that he’s one of those specialists who have left a tangible legacy in the visual vocabulary of openings and endings.


Now, for as iconic as the work of brilliant outsiders like Nanke has been, for as much as they have codified styles, you can’t understand the history of these sequences without looking at the group of people behind most of them—which also means, behind most of anime’s all-time best OP/ED. Although fans have coined that opening specialist term to refer to freelance talent that joins a project just for those specific tasks, often comprising most of their overall output, it should not be conflated with the idea of creators who excel at directing openings, as that is a much broader group. Any list of the best openings and endings of all time will be inevitably full of examples led by their series director, just as most all-timer project leaders are also exceptional at handling these sequences; again, not a coincidence that Naoko Yamada was on this list, even if it was as a guest for once.

Examples like hers also illuminate another important detail: when we examine this from the angle of entire careers as opposed to whether one job was within or outside the core team, the line between specialist outsiders and series directors who have mastered this field becomes blurrier. A perhaps even clearer example is one of the names that people immediately think about when the idea of opening specialist is mentioned. There’s no denying that Yasuomi Umetsu is one of the greatest directors in this field, nor that he keeps getting requests to prove that in productions that he’s otherwise not involved with—but does that cleanly fit that mold of the specialist who is all about these sequences? After all, and even though one of Umetsu’s claims to fame was (nearly) solo key animating Z Gundam’s OP/ED despite not being part of that team otherwise, it’s not until the mid 00s but especially 10s onwards that he began to be entrusted with the direction of those sequences as an outsider. Which is to say, after he had established himself as a series director, honing his craft on his own projects.

Even in instances where he acts as an outsider, Umetsu is notorious for obsessively reading the source material that he’s been entrusted with. Stylistically, he will take over any title that lands on his lap; he has extremely characteristic artwork that will obscure the regular designs as much as he’s allowed to, and his favorite compositions (which you can get a more extensive taste of in Sarca’s recent writeup) stand out just as much. When it comes to the texture and vibes, though, he’ll focus on capturing the soul of the work as a whole—which is why his intro for Soremachi is one of the best of all time. Fundamentally, Umetsu understands that a good opening or ending should feel like it can only exist within the context of the series it’s attached to. And conversely, that no matter how cool one sequence looks, if you can redraw faces and use it for something else then it was never a good embodiment of any particular work. This is a pitfall that no individual creator is immune to, but creators who lead entire projects are more mindful of it.


Thanks to that, it’s not just those all-time greats who have historically come up with excellent OP/ED, but also a multitude of solid series directors. Those in a position that makes them intimately familiar with the unique qualities of a series are poised for success, as long as they also have the ability to process those ideas into attractive visuals. If we consider the trends in who directs these sequences that we addressed earlier, then, one of the risks becomes rather clear—we’re detaching the job from those generally best prepared to understand its needs. By default, an outsider will have an uphill climb to become as aware of the charm of an entire work as the person leading it.

That said, it’s also important to remember that even in the case of outsiders, those sequences still go through the series director for approval. To begin with, the vague idea behind them will often come from that project leader; as a fun counterexample, remember that earlier we also talked about the Cinderella Gray ending, where the artist almost solely responsible for it discarded the idea pitched by the series director. Production dynamics aren’t simple!

Now that we have a better understanding of who comes up with anime’s openings and endings, how that is drastically changing, and the associated risks, we only have to ask ourselves… why? I believe that this is best summarized as pressure and expectations. If you draw a link between the overworked state of the industry and the fact that those very busy series directors are delegating more and more tasks, you’re obviously onto something—but I would argue that also ends up being a matter of expectations.

Directing a whole show has never been a breeze, but it’s specifically in the current context that social media and amplified online reactions have inflated viewers’ expectations. They’re constantly bombarded with clips of the best (or at least the loudest and flashiest) animation, so they want nothing else when it’s time for their next favorite work to be animated. Mind you, that applies to producers as well, as they will often fail to understand the capabilities of a team and demand just as much as the most unreasonable fans. And so openings, which are known to be a step above the shows themselves, are asked (implicitly or explicitly) to have a tremendous level of quality that series directors and even core teams altogether don’t have time for. After all, they’re already struggling to live up to those heavy expectations when it comes to the episodes themselves! That’s how we arrive at the current situation: delegations, subcontracting, reliance on complete outsiders.


This type of invisible weight is, on a broader level, a key aspect if you want to understand why workers feel so tense right now. Looking merely at salaries would, if anything, paint a better picture than previously. While overwork and schedules continue to be terrible, those are sadly a bit of a constant. But when you consider that each individual person feels that pressure to live up to inflated standards, even in environments where that’s clearly not in the cards, you understand why the atmosphere has become so asphyxiating. If we look at OP/ED specifically, it’s not a coincidence that the overall Spring 2025 data shows a still much higher rate of in-house/core team/series director sequences than the dreadful one among the examples we cherry-picked at the beginning of this piece. Given that the latter belong to high-profile titles that are much more heavily scrutinized, this effect and its consequences are much more apparent.

As we wrap up, it’s interesting to consider the ways that creators have been trying to live up to those expectations. If you look at the biggest openings in recent times, it’s clear that many have attempted to do so head-on, with bombastic, action-heavy sequences under the direction or at least influence of massively popular icons like the aforementioned Yama. These can very well result in impressive sequences, though it’s an approach prone to that replaceability; great showcases of animation that could exist anywhere but also belong nowhere. There’s often a fine line between success and that nagging feeling, so I’m personally often somewhat torn about them—despite appreciating what they can bring to the table on a technical level.

Another common solution has been to appeal to trendiness among the youth, often through the conception of opening and ending that are essentially music videos. If you add up that desire to feature eye-catching sequences, the fact that people within the industry are so busy, and the awareness that younger audiences enjoy music videos, it inevitably leads to the interesting surge of independent, alternative MV creators being in charge of OP/ED that we’re seeing right now. This obviously increases that risk of ending with sequences that don’t have a meaningful link with their work, though it’s also worth noting that plenty of subculture folks are willing to engage with the shows they’re related to—even the most experimental artists. In this very same article, we’ve highlighted the figure of Ayaka Nakata as an independent artist who delves into the distinct motifs of each series. And from an even more radical standpoint when it comes to the techniques deployed, the team led by Saho Nanjo is another recent favorite; so idiosyncratic in their stylistic choices, yet always very readable when it comes to points related to narrative and characters.


When taking a step back, sequences like that start feeling a bit familiar. We started this piece by talking about Ishiguro’s opening for Shoushimin and Ishitani’s intro for Witch Watch, as two music video-like entries that embraced (or emulated) the feeling of the diverse materials that can be made into animation. As we also noted earlier, the latter’s reputable series director explained that he refused to take on the job himself because modern audiences might find his approach to be antiquated, again showing the type of pressure that creators feel. It was his desire to feature a more hip sequence that made them pursue a more MV-ish opening, which eventually turned into Ishitani’s marvelous work. And where have we heard of creators coming up with OP/ED that feel like a music video, while embracing a diversity of materials? For starters, back in the 80s already, with artists we’ve discussed at length like Nanke. As we try to contextualize the history of any type of art, it’s always interesting to observe how a new set of circumstances can sometimes lead us to similar currents than we experienced in the past.

If you were expecting a clean conclusion out of this, I’m afraid to say that art doesn’t tend to conduce to those. A blind, almost consumerist appreciation of all the fancy openings and endings we get right now will never sit right for anyone who is aware of the context behind them. Similarly, even an awareness of the heavy pressure (and outright cynicism when it comes from producers) behind them shouldn’t taint them completely; we also know that it’s metrics of their virality that brings so many more official accounts to share production materials and even the names behind them nowadays, but that’s not going to make us believe that it’s a negative development. It’s true that we all should be more appreciative of more lowkey, deliberate sequences conceived in-house, but there’s also excellence born out of the new blood coming in from the outside. Appreciating art is complicated, and OP/ED are no exception.

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