Hey everyone. Part 2 of this retrospective was a lengthy endeavor that took far more time and work than I anticipated. It's making me wonder if doing it this way was a mistake, given that this 2022 retrospective probably won't be out until midway through the next year. But I'm already two parts in, so I won't back down now. If you missed them, please feel free to check out part 1, a look at some of the more interesting works I experienced that weren't quite good enough to consider favorites, and part 2, where I rank every 2022 anime that I completed. Along with this third part, these posts summarize my experiences with media in 2022, a year where my relationship to media changed drastically and expanded outwards.
Part 3 here will be very simple. I kept a list of all the media I experienced that I loved, and I'm just gonna list them here. These are my favorite overall pieces of media that I experienced in 2022, regardless of the year they were released in. Since I already covered my seasonal anime favorites in part 2, I won't be including those here, though suffice it to say that I would consider a number of them worthy of this list. But everything else is fair game, regardless of medium. As always, while this will be ranked for my own amusement, I'd advise focusing on what I have to say more than the number. I love every single thing on this list, and can recommend each of them wholeheartedly, so I hope to sell you on them here. So from trippy arthouse animations to acclaimed Hollywood classics to new entries of classic game franchises to intimate autobiographies, these are my favorite pieces of media that I experienced in 2022.
26. Fumiko's Confession
Recently, director Hiroyasu Ishida has started to become a noteworthy name for his work at studio Colorido. I'm already a huge fan of this director, and would consider his film Penguin Highway among my very favorites, so when I was made aware that this director's university graduation project was also a viral meme, I knew I had to take a look. Fumiko's Confession is absolutely wild, building on a singular idea in such surreal and ridiculous fashion that it's impossible to look away. It's essentially an absurd, extended gag in which a girl trips and falls after a failed love confession, but to describe it as such fails to get across what makes it so memorable. This is Loony Tunes type visual comedy executed at its peak, constantly building on itself in the least expected ways until the titular Fumiko tumbles into its hysterical anti-climax. And all the way through, it makes fun of anime associated tropes, including containing the single most insane panty shot I've ever seen. I spent the entire day laughing at this one even after I'd finished watching it three times in a row. How cool it is that even a decade ago, Ishida was still proving himself someone worth looking out for.
25. Artiswitch
Perhaps a few people will recognize this as having been an honorable mention on my "best anime of 2021" list, but this was actually a last-minute inclusion after having watched it in 2022, so I'll count it for this list as well. Artiswitch is essentially a series of 6 music videos each telling its own story. The common theme among these videos is that the characters they center around struggle with an inability to express themselves because of the expectations placed upon them by society. But these feelings and experiences are expressed through metaphors told in the form of ultra-stylish music videos, and every single one of them is fucking awesome. I find it difficult to describe them as briefly as a list like this requires, but they're stylistically almost like haute couture given animated form. These stories about depressed people are tied together in the overarching plot about a witch in training who grants people's wishes (the music videos are her way of visualizing those wishes), and struggles in the face of dealing with the complicated feelings of her customers and herself. As a whole, Artiswitch is a well put together album. It's a set of kickass MV's, gorgeous visuals and designs, and a surprisingly affecting story. It's a short 6 episode run time but it's densely layered, and is extraordinarily impactful.
24. Pokémon Scarlet
The transition from generation 8 into generation 9 of Pokémon has been an interesting one. I've personally found that Pokémon has remained a remarkably consistent franchise throughout all of the games, Sword and Shield included, but the franchise appears to be shifting direction somewhat, with Legends Arceus showing new signs of creative life. Pokémon Scarlet and Violet (really just Scarlet in my case, since that's what I played) lives up to that intrigue, and rather than outright changing the formula itself, it expands on it, and the result is probably the most captivated I've been with a Pokémon game in a decade. Seeing the Pokémon in their ecosystems adds a whole new layer to my interactions with them, but compared to Sw/Sh and Arceus, they've been given infinitely more personality. Exploring the open world and just seeing these creatures express themselves in ways I've never gotten to see before is its own reward, making the Paldea region's varied locales and all of their local critters feel more alive than in any other game in the franchise. It's the first time I've truly felt like Pokemon are animals who react to my presence, they show curiosity, fear, or aggression towards me in extremely specific ways, they live in packs or in solitude depending on the species, and sometimes they even try to impede my movement, watch my battles, try to console me, and more. Interacting with the Pokémon is the most important aspect of a Pokémon game, and Scarlet has given me a consistent stream of some of the most meaningful interactions I've ever had with the creatures.
But the human side of things is also excellent. Thematically, Pokémon Scarlet is about the idea of "finding your treasure," and it goes all in on the idea. Every character has their own treasure, and many of them have little stories about the sacrifices they made to find it. Each gym leader has a side gig they see as their treasure, and thus have some of the more memorable designs and personalities of any set of gym leaders. Teachers at the Naranja Academy are just as great, and attending their classes isn't just a great tutorial for deeper mechanics but also a heartfelt lens into their personal stories. The protagonist and their rivals all find their own treasures together through their experiences, and their stories end up having plenty of impact for it. Pokémon has been leaning more and more towards low stakes stories that are small in scale, and Scarlet is, in my opinion, the biggest success of that shift in priorities. This game is addicting, charming, surprisingly poignant at times, and is possibly the most I've ever felt like I've gone on a Pokémon adventure. I know many who have said this shift is not what they enjoy from the franchise, but I'm personally here for it, and I hope that they can expand on this winning formula in the next games. Can't wait for the DLC.
There's a fine line between being imaginative and being incoherent, and I've always had a thing for stories that walk that line so tightly it's hard to tell which way it leans. Over the Garden Wall is bizarre, and feels like a stream of consciousness being put to television. It exists in this state of dreamlike unease, where nothing flows logically and yet everything makes sense. It's whimsical in an absurdly charming way, but tinged with something undeniably haunting, reminiscent of something like Alice in Wonderland but with the sensibilities of a Cartoon Network sitcom. It works brilliantly. This show is just filled with ideas, and its unique setpieces and various stories have all stayed strong in my mind. It's a show I find difficult to write about just for what it is, and yet it has such a memorable identity. Hopefully, this vague description speaks for itself well enough, much as the show's own vague sense of reality manages to speak to me.
This semi-surreal adventure happens to be led by two of the most charming kids you'll find, including the most autistic motherfucker I've seen since Hitori Bocchi (it should be no surprise that he's my favorite). The bizarre setting aside, the series dialogue feels undeniably real, as our protagonists talk over each other, bicker, and change topics or ramble on a whim. This story is ultimately their story, one that manages to be extremely relatable to anyone who's dealt with teen angst and insecurity. And its presented with such memorable imagery and strong visual presentation that I'm sure I'll remember numerous scenes for years to come. It's the kind of show that I can easily imagine getting much more out of on the rewatch, clearly far more densely layered than what I managed to catch on this initial run. Over the Garden Wall is odd, and mildly horrifying, but it's also goofy, quirky, and poignant. It's easy to see what made it such a cult hit.
One of my attempts at Halloween spooks, Coraline more than hit the mark at being consistently unsettling. Everything about the look of this movie is "off," to the point that even the most mundane scenes kept me perked up for things to come. Of course, once the plot really kicked off, what was unsettling became outright horrifying. But it's not an in-your-face kind of horror, the creepy designs and the unsettling ways they move speak for themselves. The stunning claymation and gorgeous sets work wonders in crafting the film's uniquely whimsical brand of horror, a tone that is at once captivating and yet strikes enough fear into me that I'd rather not look, much as how Coraline herself is afraid to look at the life she has and finds herself trapped in the notion of an idealistic fantasy. The titular Coraline is a likable but complicated character, the perfect blend of normal and sympathetic teenage malaise with just enough selfish brat in her to not be completely on her side. Her journey to understand her own situation after experiencing the horrors of what she thinks she wants adds emotional grounding in the form of a coming-of-age story, which ties the film's memorable imagery together in an impactful way.
I almost see Coraline as an American take on something like Spirited Away, the coming-of-age story of an immature kid coming to realize how good they had it upon being whisked to a noticeably horrifying but undeniably whimsical fantasy world living right underneath their noses the whole time. It has that kind of vibe to it, with a stronger leaning towards horror, and it is devilishly effective. There are a few aspects I take issue with, most notably that I think the film didn't give enough credence to Coraline's own perspective. She's the one who has to change, but I do think her parents can do better and are partially at fault, but they don't really get questioned by the narrative and Coraline is the only character with any realizations. Parts of the ending do fall a bit flat for this reason, and I would be remiss to not mention it at all. But in the face of a work so beautifully hand crafted and so effective in every other area, I find that this issue is minor. Coraline is a quintessential Halloween experience, and I find it easy to see why it's become such a cult hit.
This was another memorable Halloween horror experience, though for a different reason than Coraline. Nosferatu Maiden is a 6 minute arthouse short, and a graduate project from Chinami Taniguchi at Tokyo University of the Arts. I discovered this short on accident with a friend, as we randomly searched through the horror tag on a streaming site and clicked on this film by happenstance. But Nosferatu Maiden was absolutely engrossing. It's told in this wispy, ethereal style in which it's difficult to actually make things out, seemingly from the perspective of a character in a hospital and is likely sedated, but ultimately takes place in a forest and focuses on a boy's meeting with vampires. It's the kind of short that leaves most to the imagination, but my own interpretation was that the film is the subjective experience of a young boy getting their blood drawn at a hospital, and a representation of his fear of the procedure. It's a smart metaphor that really captures the experience I've decoded, but it's also the kind of short that I can easily imagine people having wildly different ideas about. It captures a powerful vibe with its imagery, and although I haven't seen it since the end of October I still remember it fairly vividly. At just 6 minutes, it's easy to recommend and has a low barrier to entry, so if you're interested in seeing what a potentially big name put out for their university project, definitely check out the unsettling Nosferatu Maiden.
Did you guys think I was finally going to stop talking about Nanoha? Sorry, but we're not done yet. The Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha franchise definitely defined a significant portion of my media intake in 2022, so it's no wonder I'm making mention of it all three parts. But where my opinions of the main Nanoha series, the Vivid series, and Extreme Hearts from the same creators are mixed at best, ViVid Strike is the franchise clear high point. At its core, the Nanoha series is about watching the earnest drama that plays out from little girls beating the crap out of each other, and ViVid Strike cuts out all the bullshit and just doubles down on that appeal. Where the ViVid series wasn't wholly dedicated to its sports setup, ViVid Strike is brutal in its presentation of this franchise's version of MMA. These characters train to their absolute limits, and their fights don't hold anything back. No longer is physical trauma obfuscated by the magic of giant laser beams and powerful shields, when a character gets punched in the ribs their ribs just break, complete with blood, spit, and a brutal sound effect that made me feel my own ribs. ViVid Strike is visceral in its presentation of boxing, dialing back the fantasy and sci-fi elements to focus just on the physical abilities and mental conflicts of its characters. As a sports story, it's absolutely raw, and given that the series antagonist has no qualms about hospitalizing her opponents every match, it delivers on that appeal in spades while making her feel menacing.
But no sports drama is complete without a heartfelt rivalry, and the relationship between Fuuka and Rinne carry the story to its greatest heights. Fuuka is a simple character, but one who is easy to root for and feels fleshed out, making for the perfect underdog. She's new to the sport and is as unskilled as you'd expect, but her personality is such that it's not contrived that she learns very quickly, especially given her motivation. The enigmatic Rinne remains mysterious for most of the show, but every new tidbit we get about her turns the tide on how much I sympathize with her, which only makes me want to see these two estranged childhood friends fix their issues that much more. And that drama, as mentioned before, is punctuated with some of the most intense training and most visceral boxing you'll likely see in anime. Beyond that, the familiar characters from Nanoha ViVid add new layers to the story, with questions about the efficacy of training methods and how responsible other people are for Rinne's current situation making for a compelling hook in its own right. ViVid Strike is full of memorable scenes, and that includes ones off the battlefield such as the infamous bullying scene, which makes ViVid Strike one of the more memorable shows I watched this year. To think I enjoyed it this much in spite of how badly it fumbles its climax (as it's production is a disaster and it doesn't criticize a certain character nearly as much as it needs to) is just a sign of how much it already has to offer, as there's another world where I'd have this one quite a bit higher. I spent many months watching an episode of the Nanoha series every day, but the 13 days going through ViVid Strike is easily the highlight for me.
It can be difficult to embrace media that seeks to confuse the audience. Confusion is perhaps the most uncomfortable negative emotion, as sadness and anger are easy to pin down but confusion is defined by the frustration at our inability to pin things down. Being confused often means not knowing what you're confused about, and that fear of being unable to understand is why I put off this beloved arthouse classic for so long. But over the years, I've learned to embrace confusion. Life is confusing, the world makes no sense, and in the same way that much media evokes a feeling of sadness or anger, media that evokes confusion can be just as impactful. It took me a few days and a look at some analysis and reviews to even start making sense of what this story is about, and I frankly don't think I got very far. I know that there's a girl who carries eggs to a certain place, and who is very protective of those eggs, as a mysterious man bearing a cross follows her and thinks about doing things to the egg. There's one scene in which the man sticks his cross into the egg, and the eggs multiply and the girl grows up, an obvious metaphor for sex. I can tell that water is symbolic of something due to how often and in how many ways it appears in the film, perhaps representative of cleansing or clarity. But having those answers doesn't really bring me closer to gathering meaning from the film. Ultimately, meaning just doesn't work that way. You don't understand the whole from understanding small parts, meaning is something felt in your heart, and subjectively taken.
Ultimately, I've gathered that Angel's Egg is Mamoru Oshii artfully exploring his crisis of faith. There's a scene in which a group of men chase the shadows of fish, desperate to capture that which may not exist, which I'd thought from the start could be representative of one's journey to believe in God, and to continue having faith when the evidence is so unclear and others continue to believe anyway. And this, to me, explains why the film is confusing. I am not a religious man (in fact, I don't believe in a God at all), but I can't imagine a crisis of faith being any less confusing than watching swathes of men so confidently chase something that you can barely perceive. And that's probably the easy part of it, the rest of the film isn't nearly so clear cut, because the journey to understanding one's faith is messy. Life is confusing, so we should embrace media that lets us empathize with the frustration of being confused. And when the film is so lavishly animated, has such stunning art direction, and captures such a powerful mood, it's easy to just immerse myself in the experience. Maybe it's confusing, but it's also haunting, and occasionally serene, and also occasionally horrifying. I don't need to understand how each element ties into faith to feel that, because the imagery of the film conveys all I need to enjoy it in that regard. And that, I think, is what arthouse is all about. I will continue to think about this movie more and more, I couldn't avoid it even if I wanted to because the haunting imagery has seeped into my soul.
18. Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind
I'll be honest up front, my immediate gut takeaway from Nausicaa after finishing it was that it's kind of just a lesser Princess Mononoke. Perhaps that's reductive (no, it's definitely reductive), but while watching the film, I couldn't help but constantly compare them, and in most respects I came away preferring the latter. Nausicaa felt less nuanced, almost like it was moralizing at me. Nausicaa the character seemed to be the only person in the world who was aware of that world's true nature, constantly telling everyone to "get along with nature" until they, and the audience, finally got the point. But I don't make this comparison to be negative, because Princess Mononoke is one of my favorite movies, and even if it were truly just some lesser version of it, it would still be worth recommending. That being said, Nausicaa is similar in theming and nearly no other area. What it lacks in nuance, it more than makes up for with charm (Nausicaa is an immediately lovable character), and especially with its absolutely stunning setting. It's an ethereal post-apocalyptic landscape, complete with some of the most memorable fantasy creature designs I've seen in animation. Said setting is rendered with perfect color design, and outstanding sound direction makes the act of exploring this world its own reward. The nature presented is meant to be seen as both horrifying and beautiful, and it more than succeeds in making me look at this world with both wonder and terror.
And given that this is a Miyazaki film and that it's a precursor to what would eventually form Studio Ghibli, it should go without saying that it's incredibly well directed, stunningly animated from top to bottom, and has an incredible soundtrack courtesy of Joe Hisaishi. I'll go as far as to say that this is maybe my favorite OST from a Miyazaki film, and some of Hisaishi's finest work. As an experience of a piece of cinema, Nausicaa is thoroughly captivating through its presentation, and that arguably matters the most in a story like this one. I'm a sucker for its brand of dying post-apocalyptic fantasy and have been ecstatic to see so much of its influence on modern fantasy stories, but coming to this iconic classic, few have done it quite this impressively.
Quite the opposite of the epic scope of Nausicaa, Shoplifters is possibly the smallest scale story I experienced in 2022. It's simple, doesn't have much of an overarching plot, and is free of melodrama or big emotional climaxes. But Hirokazu Kore-eda paints a delicate picture of the fragile everyday of a found family of poor people trying to get by and maintain normalcy. In a way, Shoplifters almost felt like an anthology of little stories to me, with each character working through some different struggle or relationship. But in the end, having to shoplift, trick people, or sell yourself to survive doesn't mean this group can't find time to be a real family. Upon the discovery of a little girl who is clearly mistreated by her parents, this already struggling group takes her in and cares for her as if she was one of their own. But that's only natural, given that few in the group are actually related.
Shoplifters is certainly a look into poverty, and the lack of support for those who are struggling to survive. In that, it's a detailed look into the life of this family. But what I most took from the film is a treatise on what it means to be family. Rin's real family is relatively better off monetarily, but she's not truly treated as family there, certainly not the way she was when she was cared for by shoplifters, with a brother to teach her about the world and protect her, a mother to "buy" her nice clothes and take her to the beach, and a father who spoils her with attention. Shouta isn't sure about calling Osamu "dad" throughout most of the film, but the way their relationship ends certainly put a tear in my eye. Family isn't determined by birth or by blood, it's something that is chosen by those who are fulfilled by participating in it, and I think it says something that these characters find more meaning in their existence as shoplifters constantly on the edge of jail than as people in more "legitimate" circumstances. The poor and disenfranchised can be the most caring, and this family's heartfelt, intimate everyday won me over with their unabashed care and self sacrifice for each other. I will certainly be checking out more work from Kore-eda in the future.
16. My Lesbian Experience With Loneliness
I have historically struggled to be immersed in print media, so I've largely overlooked comics. But since 2022 represented a big change in my relationship to media, I wanted to expand into as much as I could. Given my past with the medium, I thought I would start off with something very short, and the 6 chapter autobiographical My Lesbian Experience With Loneliness seemed like a good choice, given its acclaim. This proved to be an extremely rewarding experience, as I found this work to be both harrowing and greatly enlightening to read. My Lesbian Experience isn't always an easy read given how casually it presents topics like suicide, bulimia, sexual frustration, and the pressure of well-meaning but misguided parents, but it revels in raw honesty. It presents the author's reasoning for engaging in each of these things in detail, but it does so with a deadpan casualness, almost as if she wants us to laugh at it in hindsight. Moreover, it celebrates in her victories, and the artwork is simple yet adorable, so although it can be heavy at times, it's never overwhelmingly so. Because, let's face it, a story about a decades long build-up to calling a lesbian escort service hoping it will somehow make you an adult is... kinda funny when you look back on it, and yet the feelings behind it are very real, very personal, and very painful. In a way, that's just what life is I think.
Unlike Kabi-sensei, I haven't struggled with an eating disorder, I am not gay or non-binary and haven't experienced any related stigmas, and I've never wanted to cut myself. But with these topics, I can empathize because of how simply yet understandably she describes how her mind functioned at the time, and she even drew little diagrams sometimes to help it shine through. I think this work gave me a eureka moment about why people might self-harm, something I really didn't understand the appeal of until she described her life as one where the source of her pain seemed impossible to understand or fix, and thus why self-harm being a very straightforwardly understandable source of pain would feel comforting in such a confusing world. I think fiction's ability to help us empathize with foreign perspectives like that is one of the best things about it, and that on its own would have made this worth reading. But I also found myself intimately seen in other aspects of this story. Kabi facing the pressure from her parents to grow up, and how she didn't know what she wants to do and was unsure about a career in manga, definitely speak to me. But it's how sexual frustration is presented that most resonated with me. Sex is often seen as this rite of passage, a life changing event that makes you a true adult. I think that Kabi-sensei and I grew up with very similar feelings towards sex, and I understand her sexual frustrations all too well. Unlike me though, she's done something about it. And even if sex may not be what she was hoping for, the experiences detailed in this comic no doubt helped her to grow, and helped me to grow just a little bit too. There are numerous sequels to this that I hope to read soon, so both of us no doubt have more growth to do, but for the moment, my painful but cathartic read of My Lesbian Experience With Loneliness has stuck with me as a unique and empathetic media experience, and will hopefully be a good gateway into comics and manga.
As someone deeply interested in media, it can be easy to get caught up in the allure of the spectacular. These are the shining and emotionally affecting moments we often think we seek as viewers, unique and memorable experiences you can't get anywhere else. Hollywood has long prided itself on its unique ability to provide spectacle for us viewers to get lost in, but less emphasized is the act of crafting such mesmerizing and unique experiences, an act of creation that often comes with harm, trauma, and unethical behavior. Given what Nope says about the Hollywood film industry (and entertainment industries at large), I have to say that it was a shame to see it completely overlooked at this past year's Oscars, as if the Academy didn't want to publicly address or acknowledge its misdeeds by celebrating a film that criticizes them, even when the filmmaking is so excellent. But I will not overlook it myself, as Nope takes all the fun of a horrifying creature feature and blends it into a moving and thought-provoking story about entertainment, racism, our relationship to animals, and generally our attitudes towards being wowed.
I'd describe Nope as something akin to Jaws, but aimed at the insecurities of the modern age. One viral video or novel idea can lead you to great fame, and the lengths creators will go to find something attention grabbing are far more horrifying than anything the subjects can do to us unprovoked. We do not have a relationship to animals similar to that of a mutually agreed upon contract between Hollywood film actors and producers, they react to us and we play by their rules. It's a failure to understand this that leads to the film's central conflict, and it's in exploring each characters' attitude that it finds its substance, especially contrasted against the cultural memory of the failed in-universe sitcom Gordy's Home. In its best moments, the film is unflinchingly tense, with the camera begging to look towards the horrors but always turning away. In reality, we shouldn't want to look anyway after all. But the story is led by a strong cast who embody their roles in the story perfectly, and slowly grow strong chemistry as the film goes on, Keke Palmer's performance especially standing out. Even more impressive are the special effects, as the strange creature at the center of this creature feature looks phenomenal, this bizarre combination of UFO, cowboy hat, and Biblical/Evangelion style angel. I've not yet seen Jordan Peele's other features, but given Nope's excellence, I'll be sure to look through the rest of his filmography soon.
Love is truly a beautiful thing, something nearly everyone seeks. It's not easy to maintain, but it also doesn't have to be impossible, and with the right person, it's always worth it. The question is, how can we know if we're with the right person? Love has its ups and downs after all, and at some point in some relationships, the downs get so low as to be irredeemable. At the start of Eternal Sunshine, Joel and Clementine find what appears to be a standard meet-cute, the classic tale of a depressed man meeting the manic pixie dream girl to take him out of his funk and teach him to love. The presentation of this section of the story is so cloying as to be obvious that it'll never work, with cracks showing themselves instantly that will get in the way of any long-term romance. This is a relationship that works only in a trope ridden movie. Clementine is needy, spontaneous, high maintenance, while Joel is straightforward, singularly focused, and not always down for excitement or risks; both characters screwed up in their own ways. Through all of these moments leading up to both characters erasing their memories of each other, it convinced me that these characters would never work, and that the cracks in the relationship were a sign that it was broken. But slowly, through this bizarre and surreal trip into Joel's memories, my opinion of this relationship started to shift.
Joel's memories have their downs, but they also have their ups. As the procedure goes on, he finds himself realizing that he's made a mistake. The lows were heartbreaking, but the highs were genuine, and no matter her feelings, erasing an important person would be a travesty. And it goes both ways for both characters. In taking apart the manic pixie dream girl trope, Joel is made to acknowledge that his dream girl is indeed a fucked up person. But that's who he fell in love with, and everyone is fucked up a little bit, and love is about living with someone you love, fucked up qualities and all, and that's kind of beautiful. Being strung along for this insane and hilarious ride in a whirlwind of surreal imagery, ridiculous humor, stunning cinematography, and top notch performances from Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet is nothing if not memorable, and much like the highs of the leads' relationship, is an utter joy to experience. And when it ends, the two meet again, and my understanding of their relationship is flipped, I started to question at least a few of my assumptions at the start of the film. The movie's main poster involves these protagonists laying on a sheet of ice cuddling up, a crack next to their feet. I think this is what love is supposed to look like. It's not idealized or pure, relationships have cracks, but being cracked does not mean being broken. Love is about figuring out how to form those cracks into a sturdy foundation.
Holy fuck is this film ever tense. The Power of the Dog essentially feels like a two hour tension build, one that had me on the edge of my seat from the very start and and only tipped me closer and closer over the edge as it went. Its horrors are not about what's around the corner, but about what's right there in front of us, and what the cast has to live with every day. I think it really says something about this film that I spent nearly 3/4ths of its run-time terrified that Phil was going to murder someone, and yet came away feeling at least somewhat sympathetic towards him. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The Power of the Dog is essentially a slow-burn thriller set in the old west, and is, at its core, an intimate portrait of toxic masculinity. It's the kind of movie that I struggle to talk about without spoiling, given its dense layers of characterization and themes that would require going into specifics (and rewatching the film to catch more of it, and to iron out the vocabulary I use to describe it), although that in itself may have sold some of you on it. So instead of talking about how it presents internalized fears of seeming weak or effeminate as part of a cycle of influence, or how likable and well realized everyone who isn't its most central character is, I choose to emphasize the chilling affect it had on me as I was watching it, a constantly growing sense of tension, unease, and eventually outright fear.
The film achieves this ridiculous tension build because it's so insanely solid on a technical level. Jane Campion directs the absolute hell out of it, as I always felt like the camera was voyeuristically gazing at the characters I most wanted to be left alone. The idea that Phil is always watching them, trying to catch on to any effeminate behavior or make himself look more dominant, is realized through the cinematography. Of course, when Phil takes a more active role in the story as a pseudo father figure to a certain character, that unease just turned into sirens that lasted the rest of the film's duration. Further emphasizing this is its outstanding sound direction. This film's score is not designed to set the scene or capture an overall mood, but rather, to throw the viewer off guard as much as possible in order to keep them on edge. It's full of unsteady rhythms, shrill instrumentation, and is often timed perfectly to events that are implied to be possible but never fully implied, constantly keeping me on the edge of insanity as I navigate the daily lives of these farmers. Given that the paranoia the characters face is likely 10-fold what I experienced here, I'd say that this was an immensely effective choice. The Power of the Dog is a difficult watch in more ways than one, but it's also an emotional and rewarding one. When you spend most of a film teetering in paranoia, that payoff is always going to be satisfying, no matter which way it goes.
Quite the opposite of the previous entry, Kirby and the Forgotten Land is many hours of nonstop sugary adorableness. Kirby is truly the most perfect being in existence. He's pink, he's round, he's small, and he eats literally everything. And also, now he's in 3D. Kirby's first foray into the third dimension is an astounding success, as one of the biggest factors to the game's success is its insanely tight controls. Hal Laboratory has nailed it on their first try, as it's never been more fun to navigate these obstacles, and the team has accounted for all of the abilities Kirby has that would clearly be broken with the new mechanics. As a platforming challenge, Kirby and the Forgotten Land is fun just for how responsively I can run, jump, and suck up enemies. Like all Kirby games, this is extraordinarily easy, and so the bulk of its fun comes from outstanding level design. Simply put, exploring the game's locations is a blast just because the locations are so interesting, and the challenges put in them so memorable. One level is designed to be a normal trip through a shopping mall, where Kirby rides escalators, gets lost in the store, and goes to the food court where he shares a meal with the new adorable creatures. In another level, you go on a normal trip through an amusement park, where you return some ducklings to their mother, ride a roller coaster, eat cotton candy, and take a picture with one of those things where there's a character but there's a hole where their face is and you stick your face in there so it looks like you're the character. Most of the game's challenges are cute like this, and it's an experience pitch perfectly designed to keep you smiling the entire way through, with copy abilities placed in exactly the right spots (mouthful mode is way more fun than I thought it would be) and tons of secrets to be found. And although not every level is as unique and perfect as those, as it still has some basic desert and ocean worlds, the nature of the game's post-apocalyptic setting always ensures that things are never too basic.
Speaking of that setting, the melancholy of exploring a lost-forgotten world adds an emotional richness to the experience that prevents it from being overly saccharine. We might have a fun trip to the mall, but said mall was once inhabited by humans, full of signs of life and commerce now overtaken by plants and animals that lived through the apocalyptic incident. The boss battles might be against funny animal guys, but they are the few survivors of an event beyond our comprehension. And in case you forgot that Kirby isn't just cute, but also an alien monstrosity powerful enough to destroy gods and universes, the end of the game turns in a memorably unsettling direction that, suffice it to say, shook me up a bit; I won't spoil it here. But none of this gets in the way of it being adorable and delightful, it performs an immaculate tonal balancing act. After rescuing Waddle Dees, they build a little town where you can go fishing, work a food truck, and watch a band play. It's absolutely precious, and provides a nice break in the gameplay loop. And if the base game was too easy, the post game provides sufficiently difficult challenge for those hardcore players looking for a challenge. All in all, Kirby and the Forgotten land is exceptionally tight in its design, both mechanically and narratively, and is thus an absolute blast to play. It's both a perfection of the formula and a venture to a new frontier, making for probably my favorite game in the franchise. I can't wait for my next adventure with the super tuff pink puff.
As this modern classic started to near its end, I finally started my journey with it. 10 years after everyone else, but never too late, it's clear to me why Attack on Titan is such a hit. It's a story built for mass appeal, falling in line with the action and melodrama heavy apocalyptic survival thrillers that have often been popular in the west, but with a unique twist to its zombie creatures, and a style of writing clearly influenced by Hollywood blockbusters that only maximizes its mainstream appeal. Attack on Titan is the perfect balance of camp and horror, always existing in this strange space where its inherent ridiculousness is unsettling, and the utter seriousness with which the characters treat their situation being so earnest that I find it impossible to not be invested. It's directed with such dynamism and vigor that its bouts of absurd melodrama feel like earnest pleas of fear no matter how often and how loudly the characters scream, and its action climaxes among the most epic and satisfying in animation thanks to an outstanding production and soundtrack. The story has its ups and downs, but it's propulsively paced and deals out shocking plot twists at just the right spots to make it difficult to put down, and the mystery at its center has some of the tightest plotting you'll find. It's a viscerally satisfying watch that I found addicting to experience, and its backed by a group of imminently lovable characters, so even during its lowest points of dragging things out, engaging in awkward dialogue, or exploring hammy political backdrops, I never felt like putting it down given the promise of a big moment soon to come.
This mostly describes the first half of the story, with the more divisive second half seeming to split the fanbase somewhat. The story evolves from a zombie apocalypse story into a more nuanced political and military drama, with a shift in studio and aesthetic marking a clear dividing line, which may have understandably turned some people off (and conversely, gotten many more invested), but I personally found that the shift didn't affect my enjoyment whatsoever. The events in this later part of the story build naturally from the beginning, and the plotting to get here made the shift satisfying. While I miss the scrappy survival elements of the story, it more than makes up for it by improving upon its exploration of the politics that were always in the background. Our new perspective on the situation makes the story feel more thoughtful, but it also doesn't kill the core of the show as a campy horror melodrama about battling giant monsters, and if anything, it only raised the stakes. I feel like my preferences can sometimes be a bit out there for the average media consumer, even if I feel they're varied, so it's nice to genuinely love something that everyone else also seems to love, even if it's not landing on my list of favorite TV shows. I'm here for this event of modern pop culture, and more than happy to recommend everyone else join me on this train as it crashes into the most divisive section of the story.
10. Turning Red
When it comes to the actual numbered rankings on this list, I have a feeling this is going to be the one that raises the most eyebrows. It does appear that I enjoyed Pixar's newest hit more than most, and I hope that those with brows furled will hear me out. The discourse surrounding this movie has been odd, with so many seeming to find it impossible to relate to due to its focus on the personal drama unique to the situation of a middle school aged Asian/Canadian girl
There was a specific moment in the film where I knew I had fallen in love. Mei and her mother were discussing ways of hiding the red panda by staying relaxed, and her mother told her to imagine her loving embrace. Given the events of the film leading up to that point, the idea of her mother's love was the furthest thing from calming, but she then turned to the earnest love of her friends and it solved the problem. But out of fear, Mei lied to her mother, saying that it was imaging her love that put the panda away. In this moment, I saw myself in Mei, in this 13 year old Asian girl living in Canada as a 25 year old white guy living in America, because that feeling was specifically familiar to me, as someone who does not feel that sort of warmth from his parents but does from his friends, and who has gotten into many bouts of trouble as a result of that. We can relate to this movie, and I related very hard. But being relatable doesn't make a movie enjoyable, that comes from execution, and Turning Red is a funny and poignant coming-of-age story that perfectly encapsulates that time in one's life. And it does so without forgetting to be fun as hell, full of goofy panda shenanigans, glorious adolescent cringe, and even a fucking kaiju battle. When all the relevant characters stepped through their literal gates to adulthood, I felt as fulfilled as only the best stories can make me. And backed with snappy direction and editing, gorgeous photography work, and wildly expressive animation, Turning Red felt to me like one of Pixar's most heartfelt and personal films. A hot take though this may be, I genuinely think Turning Red is one of the best of this acclaimed studio's catalog.
I mentioned in part 1 of this retrospective that I never got to watch Avatar the Last Airbender because I got into Nickelodeon by the time that generation had ended, with sitcoms like iCarly being my gateway into the station. Although I've not seen any iCarly media in years, I have a soft spot for the show, and as I recently found out from a certain 13 hour retrospective, have seen essentially every single episode of it, having kept up from the very beginning. But most great memories come with horrifying realizations, as I'd later learn about the sad situation behind its production and the abused faced by Jenette McCurdy, who's character Sam Puckett ended up sticking with me the most over the years (even if Carly was my favorite back in the day). Now that's become common knowledge for quite a while, but Jenette's recently released and absolutely harrowing autobiography sheds light on specifics so intimate and uncomfortable that I don't really felt like I'd understood the gravity of it until now. I wasn't sure what to expect from the very first novel of an abused child actress, but as it turns out, Jenette has a gift for writing, as she paints her experiences with such vivid specificity that it always felt as if I were right there in the room with her, fearful of the constantly watchful eye of a pathetically sad women unable to come to terms with her mortality and her children growing up, and taking that insecurity out on them (this really sells it short, she's an awful and irredeemable person and I'm glad she died too, and she's not the only asshole in this story). More than that, I felt as if I got to live through the lows of anorexia and bulimia, debilitating anxiety, sexual abuse, and much more. Given how difficult it was to experience this book, and how raw and open Jenette was about these experiences, I still find it impossible to imagine living through these experiences, because these descriptions are vivid in such a way that I can't imagine myself being able to live through it and not become a non-functioning husk of a human being.
But the novel isn't a complete downer, because it's a full retrospective on Jenette's life, and there are moments in there so freeing and monumental as to make me soar, as limited and short lived as they may be. It's all a testament to how powerful her writing is that she can hit both extremes so viscerally, even when it leans so strongly to one side. It almost makes it a shame that she doesn't want to work in entertainment anymore given that she'd probably write some banger scripts, but alas, I also don't want her to return to that world. Given that she wasn't even able to refer to Dan Schneider as anything other than the eponymous "the creator," it's clear that she's still somewhat shackled by her past even beyond the lifelong trauma, and the further she can get away from it all, the better. And I had the pleasure of experiencing this journey through the audiobook, which Jenette narrates herself, adding an extra layer of personal intimacy as she acts out her own feelings and experiences. It's so obvious that the dialogue used isn't an approximation, but is the exact wording of things she said and received, her performance latching on to specific words and phrases too real to be fake, the pouring out of traumatic experiences etched into her heart too strongly to forget the words of. Perhaps it's just the skill of a talented ex-actress, but it certainly feels personal to me. Both a disconcerting look into the entertainment industry, and a treatise on how meaningless blood ties are to relationships, I feel like this is an important book, and I'd like to urge everyone to give it a read, most of all if you, like me, once loved Jenette's classic characters.
This year, I dipped my toes into some of the later years of anime's infancy by experiencing some of the most important and influential works of the 70's and early 80's. First among them here is The Rose of Versailles, a (mostly) historically accurate retelling of 20 years of events leading to the French Revolution through the eyes of a noblewomen who was raised as a man, and probably one of the most important works of Japanese media ever made. I don't want to make this a history lesson, but The Rose of Versailles is one of those works where I can't ignore it when discussing it, as this story is a defining work of shoujo manga, inspired the most famous play of world renowned Takarazuka Revue, plays a notable role in how the country would portray sex and gender in media, helped define anime's cinematic vocabulary, and continues to be referenced, iterated on, and celebrated to this day. The series approaches its 50th anniversary now, and its anime adaptation absolutely holds up as one of the medium's very best even with so much time passed. It essentially presents the French Revolution as a decades spanning soap opera, and as far as telenovela type stories go, this is one I was earnestly invested in.
Oscar is a classic character for a reason, her charismatic personality, memorable design, and complicated inner psyche make for an immensely compelling point-of-view characters. She's written such that there's no bias when things go south for everyone, as she's a noble of principles and morals, but her personal feelings still make the right choices difficult, and that's only complicated by her relationship to her gender and romance. The Rose of Versailles may have come out in the 70's, but it would probably still be progressive if it came out today, and its take on gender strongly resonated with me. The world of 1700's France is one in which everyone is put in boxes, be it noble/commoner or man/women. The expectations placed on people in all of these positions is the series main villain, as the failure of its society largely comes form the inability of the characters to properly fit into these strictly enforced systems. Same as how Marie Antoinette's downfall comes from being forced into a position of responsibility and power she could never handle, and Rosalie's conflict and eventual conclusion stem from these strictly divided constructs, so too does Oscar's inability to cleanly fit the role of man or women lead to her issues. In all cases, the system itself is what fails to help the people who live in it, and so that is what needs to be destroyed. This only scratches the surface of this nuanced story of politics, war, and romance, it's far too dense to analyze here. But it sells its somewhat campy melodrama with ornate visual presentation and excellent direction, alongside a perfectly fitting soundtrack. The Rose of Versailles is a dense and complicated story that gives me so much to say, and this masterful work is relatively one of the medium's earliest, so Riyoko Ikeda, Tadao Nagahama, and Osamu Dezaki were far ahead of their time with it. Please don't be turned off by this series old age, it holds up perfectly and is worth experiencing for much more than its historical value.
Funny that this should come right after Rose of Versailles, as Revue Starlight is certainly one modern work influenced by it (and particularly its stage adaptation by the Takarazuka Revue). The Revue Starlight TV series was already an anime that I considered a favorite, with its brilliant direction, spectacular sword play, and celebration/criticism of Takarazuka captivating me from start to finish. Its ending was plenty satisfying, and the promise of a film sequel felt a bit confusing given that series rejection of the revue system; there's no way this franchise would abandon its most iconic memorable setpiece. But Revue Starlight: The Movie is as perfect a send-off as you can get, matching and even exceeding the heights set by its prequel, and serving as the dazzling performance we always wanted without compromising the themes of the series. Revue Starlight: The Movie is this franchise's Adolescence of Utena, turning the Ikuhara-inspired surreal arthouse trappings of the original series into a full-blown arthouse mindfuck full of densely layered symbolism, and upping the dazzling spectacle of the not-quite-revues to 11. As a story about a business dedicated to providing spectacle, the burden that system puts on performers, and performers with dreams of performing in such spectacles without those burdens, I'm not sure there's much media out there that knows what spectacle looks like as much as Revue Starlight. Blinding lights, bombastic action, intense music, insane imagery, Revue Starlight: The Movie amplifies the allure of the stage to jawdropping levels; these are the performances the characters have always wanted to give. The film would be worth watching for its not-quite-revues alone, as Tomohiro Furukawa has crafted a viscerally entertaining sensory experience on par with his mentor Ikuhara's best work.
But narratively, Revue Starlight: The Movie can be said to improve on the original series as well. My biggest problem with the TV show was that its protagonists were always the least interesting characters it had. As much as I loved Karen and Hikari, they were always outshone by the rest of the cast, always feeling a bit more like embodiments of ideas than characters to care about deeply. But this film digs more into their psyches in 30 minutes than the totality of the TV series, and especially helps Karen to retroactively become a fantastic character. As a whole, this is also an epilogue for each of the characters. For Starlight, they got to perform together with their other halves, but as each of the stage girls chases their own dreams in the aftermath of Starlight's wake, how should they deal with graduation sending them to a new station? Since the cast was largely motivated in some way by their relationships with each other, the film sees them wrapping up loose ends and learning to say goodbye; that you can't perform on every stage together because you and the stage have to evolve, but each performance is a personal rebirth, and so long as you both continue to love the stage, you'll meet again. Revue Starlight as a story is bombastic, spectacular, and epic, but also personal, centering around a love of both other people and the art of performance, and the film ups the ante on both of those extremes, making for its most awesome and most poignant performance to date. If there were ever any doubt about Tomohiro Furukawa's prowess as a director after the TV series, all were dropped at the same moment as my jaw at the sight of this perfect spectacle.
Going to a beloved 90's classic who's reputation seems to have diminished somewhat over time can be an intimidating prospect, especially when I'm one of the few with no nostalgia for it at all. No matter how I feel about it, someone's not gonna like it, and they'll be sure to let me know. But dammit, Trigun fucks. The secret to its success is simple: Trigun's iconic characters deserve their status, because this cast is one of the most imminently lovable I've seen in a long time. Vash, Meryl, Milly, and Wolfwood have pitch perfect chemistry, the kinds of personalities you can have in any combination and any scenario and it be an iconic scene. Trigun can largely be divided into its more comedic first half and more dramatic second half, and likewise, its characters have strongly comedic halves and strongly dramatic halves, making for a versatile and multifaceted crew. Following this crew through the antics of the initial section of the story built my attachment such that the contrasting drama felt alienating, because I just want them to be happy, and the world of Trigun is one where happiness doesn't come easily. Said world is also a fascinating one, a desert planet that feels like the wild west, full of isolated settlements surrounding small power plants that keep them afloat, each with their own cultures and attitudes. Exploring this world with this cast would itself be a memorable experience easy to fall in love with, like Madmax if it were both sillier and more dramatic.
But Trigun aims for something a bit more ambitious. Vash, in spite of his reputation, is a naïve idealist who's radical pacifism is counter to the world he lives in. In spite of all he sees, all who turn against him, all the harm he's forced to cause, and all who actively shove his idealism in his face, he stubbornly holds on to that idealistic worldview; a person who'd rather the whole world want him dead if it meant saving even a single life. It's a source of conflict that even prevents him from reaching his goals, given that he won't kill those who actively want to cause death and have the power to do so. Most of the other characters have somewhat different ideals and experiences, and work overtime to keep these conflicting ideals in check. But I can't write Vash off as some idealistic extreme (especially given that he's well aware of the flaws of his ideology), because his extraordinary dedication to good natured idealism touched me just as much as it did others in the cast. At the end of the day, the world of Trigun is violent, and if we want the world to change, we need people like Vash to exist. Maybe Vash alone can't change the world, but if more people believe in his pacifistic ideal, then there will be less death, and so it's always worth rooting for people like him. Trigun is one of the classic 90's anime, and its nostalgia inducing style and potent storytelling make it more than hold up in my opinion. I may not have grown up with the show, but it managed to touch me just as much as it did those who were around for it.
Another sequel to one of my favorite pieces of media, I feel absolutely blessed to have gotten Aria's anniversary sequel films. Even 15 years after the end of the original series, and 3 years apart from its previous anniversary work, Aria hasn't lost even a single beat, and managed to soothe me into the Neo-Venezia's unique and blissful vibe once again. However, Aria's story was always about change, and so these films have been about the act of living through these changes. The town of Neo-Venezia is the same in many ways, its overall vibe is the same, the act of guiding gondola tours is unchanged, we live through yearly events we've seen before, it's very familiar. But at the same time, this isn't the original series, the characters we know and love are in far different positions, and much of our point of view is from the rookies who take their place, who they are mentors to much as the great fairies were to them. The series knows we miss the time Akari, Aika, and Alice spent together training without regard for the future, gently embraces that pain, and then celebrates their accomplishments. Because their new lots in life, as difficult as they may be, are still fun in their own way. That's Aria's main message after all: we shouldn't say "those days were fun," but "those days were fun too."
It's in that way that Aria the Crepuscolo calls back to the series in a meaningful way, something that goes beyond mere reference to past events to evoke nostalgia. This film builds on the world established, continuing to add new and fascinating details to one of my favorite settings in fiction. For example, something akin to Christmas is still celebrated on this planet hundreds of years in the future, but the actual aesthetics of Christmas have changed dramatically given all that time, and yet those changes feel like a perfectly logical evolution of what already exists, as if the story slowly morphed over time through a centuries long game of telephone. Moreover, this film wraps up many of the series loose ends, particularly in regards to Alice's feelings on her new position and Athena's uncertain future. Given that this is the second sequel work to a 60 episode TV series from the early 2000's, and one that's so all-encompassing and evocative in its theming, describing what makes it great without spoiling or taking forever is tough. But Aria is one of anime's most enduring cult classics, and one of my absolute favorites, and Aria the Crepuscolo continues in its legacy almost as if it were never gone. Having since watched the final of its sequel films before writing this entry (you'll find that on the 2023 list to be sure), I now live in a world with no new Aria episodes, and that is something truly bittersweet.
There's a stereotype of big blockbusters and of anime as media that is absurdist, over-the-top, and lacking any sense of humanity. As a stereotype, this is naturally an unfair characterization that cherry picks specific examples to turn into generalizations and discounts even more sizable segments of these mediums. But nonetheless, those examples exist and have proven to be very popular. I think that what makes the stereotype of superhero films and shounen battle anime so enduring is that their ridiculous stories are grounded in something real, and the maximalism of how the story is told elevates and caricatures the genuine emotions of the characters. RRR has consistently been referred to as India's attempt at a live-action shounen battle story, and there's a part of me that wants to vehemently deny it. It downplays a long history of Tollywood cinema, and focuses only on the aspect of this story that is about over-the-top feats of masculine badassery. But what I think they mean is that RRR captures the spirit of these works that make them so emotionally satisfying. RRR is as maximalist a story can get. It takes less than 20 minutes for one of the main characters to start training in a jungle with his shirt off and then punch a tiger in the face, and it only escalates from there until the finale is full of motorcycles, explosions, and far more animals than just a tiger. This is fucking fun, some of the most impressive maximalist filmmaking I've seen, and is viscerally entertaining on every level. It transitions seamlessly between epic brawls, human drama, musical numbers, political drama, and more, and it's structured to feel like a constantly evolving epic; one elevated by outstanding cinematography and perfect pacing.
That versatility is where it gets its substance from. It can be a hopelessly endearing bromance about two guys on different sides of a conflict trying to work through the complicated feelings of having to imprison or kill your best friend. It can be an amazing musical with tinges of a romantic comedy. And then you get those classic shounen-like moments where Bheem is tied up and whipped but never gives up, and then uses the bars of his containment cell to do pull-ups in preparation for his big escape. RRR is big in the sense that it does it all, and it does all of it with a flair and a ton of earnest heart that makes it impossible to not be emotionally invested in all the ridiculous drama. This movie is over 3 hours, and I typically feel like a movie is too long when it's only 2 hours. And yet, by the time RRR was over, time that completely flew by, I was disappointed that I didn't have three more hours of it. I think that's the highest praise I can give this movie. It's one of the most imminently watchable films I've ever seen, a spectacle of epic proportions full of hyper-masculine angst and bromance that elevates the human drama at its core. Stories like this are why the movies exist.
But there was one more maximalist movie that captured me ever so slightly more. Everything Everywhere genuinely lives up to its title, this movie is... a lot. It's maximalist in the sense that it throws out everything it can from every possible source of influence all at the same time. It's an immigrant family drama, mother/daughter forgiveness story, multiverse sci-fi, romance, comedy, kung-fu epic. Its style goes through everything from realism to surrealism to minimalism to becoming animated for half a second. But this hodgepodge of ideas isn't disconnected, random, or thoughtless, the absurdity all collides into a cohesive aesthetic designed to replicate how confusing it is to live. The possibilities that could have been create a whirlwind of thoughts, regrets, and missed opportunities, all leading to the life we have now. Given that this is our life, and the world is just confusing like that, how can we live like that? Much of my favorite art comes from replicating how it feels to live via caricature, and tying that absurdity to the emotions they're grounded in, and Everything Everywhere All At Once is one of the best I've seen at this type of story. Sometimes, it can feel like everything we do is meaningless, but that lack of objective value means that every action we take has a meaningful effect on ourselves and the people around us. Living for them and trying to get along with what you have is meaningful enough, and so if nothing truly matters, then everything I do matters to someone who matters to me, if not to myself.
Life can be confusing, but that confusion is often hilarious, and Everything Everywhere All At Once plays into that absurdity in a memorable way that constantly had me laughing my ass off. From hotdog finger universes to Ratatouille spin-offs to dildo police batons, each universe and possibility had something easy to laugh at, and yet within each of these possibilities lied something heartfelt and real. Within any one of these crazy worlds, the people in it can find happiness, and if you can be happy with hotdog fingers, surely you can be happy in this world. I find that the contrast of the absurd with the real often makes the real feel more... poignant. I find it hard to describe, but when the craziness dies down and we're left in a quiet moment where the only thing one can do is talk openly about their raw feelings, that quietness can feel more impactful. I knew Everything Everywhere All At Once was one of my favorite movies the moment we spent 5 minutes on a scene of two rocks with googly eyes having a heart-to-heart with no music and dialogue spelled only through subtitles, and I found myself tearing up in this beautifully intimate moment that would seem completely absurd out of context. In that moment, and after completing the film, I thought to myself "this is why I love art, only art can do this." I'm not sure I can give higher praise than that.
From modern maximalism to mundane old classics, Isao Takahata's anime adaptation of Lucy Maud Montgomery's classic novel couldn't be further from the previous entries. But in a very different way, Anne of Green Gables also encapsulates everything I value in stories. While I love the big, sweeping emotions of an RRR, I equally love stories that exist in the smallest scale, aiming for intimacy above all else. Anne of Green Gables starts with its setting, as Green Gables itself feels like the main character. It's a tight knit little town where basically everyone knows everyone, and gossip spreads quickly (thanks Rachel). Anne is obsessed with the gorgeous nature surrounding her, and seeing this beautiful world through her curious wide eyes makes the mundane place feel beautiful. Moreover, the setting changes alongside the characters, really emphasizing the passage of time. Many of the story's most impactful moments come from changes to the environment over time, seeing this place that feels so familiar lose something of itself is as gutting as any character death, especially when it's rendered with such stunning background art. Within this wonderful place lives the trio of Anne, Marilla, and Matthew as a wonderful family, and seeing their relationships grow is one of this work's most satisfying prospects. Anne and Marilla both balance each other out, with Anne loosening her up and helping her see the beauty in not always being efficient, and Marilla serving as a role model to teach Anne responsibility, and Matthew serving as the one constant in Anne's life and her biggest source of support. Truly, one of my favorite families in any story.
But at its core, this story is about the coming-of-age of its titular character. Anne starts out a naïve drama queen, and imaginative to the point of harm, it being a coping mechanism for the loneliness she faced at the orphanage. But over time, she starts to form genuine relationships, finds her first real friends, looks up to numerous female role models, and slowly but surely matures. The process is so gradual that you don't notice it as it happens, but the series always encourages us to look back and appreciate what we had and what we've gained, and so seeing this once rowdy young girl become a responsible young women is immensely heartwarming, and seeing her caregivers come to treasure her more than they'd ever imagine is equally so. There's a sadness in the loss of such unrestrained childlike wonder, but at the same time, she's always encouraged to keep part of that with her, because that part of her adds light to the lives of everyone she meets. This story encapsulates life in its purest form, all of its ups and downs, hitting every minute detail with KyoAni level attention to character acting, and shows the strength needed to live through it and grow. Life is about change, it's something we have to accept, but that doesn't mean we can't keep parts of our past. We should learn to treasure life's transient moments, because the beauty is in their impermanence.
1. When Harry Met Sally
For this one, I have nothing to say in regards to my overall values or any comparisons to previous entries on this list. When Harry Met Sally was my favorite piece of media I experienced in 2022 for one simple reason: it's as tightly written and directed as a film can get. This is a pitch perfect romantic comedy, so nearly flawless in its construction and so organic in its execution that it was impossible to not get sucked into its rhythm. A romance is based on dialogue, the moment you've sold me on the chemistry of the protagonists you've succeeded as a romance. And when it comes to dialogue, When Harry Met Sally is probably the best I've ever seen in this genre. This script is not only full of memorable and hilarious one-liners, but is brimming with a sense of growing intimacy between the titular leads, until they feel so inseparable that even they can't stop pretending they aren't in love. The relationship between them grows so organically, and the changes over the passage of time help ground them as real people. This extends to even side characters and other conversations. The script is exaggerated and rhythmic in such an engaging way, and the filmmaking is subtle but quietly keeps things engaging, making for a tight and well rounded experience.
What ties it together for me is that the story lets these characters be vulnerable, even as they attempt to hide it from each other. Harry pushes people away after having been burnt by a previous relationship, afraid of suffering the same fate again, and it's a recurring plot point that helps to slowly break the air of misplaced confidence. He thrives on chaos and seeing how people react to what he says, but even this character is allowed to be upset when need be. But then it never delves too deeply into drama. Harry and Sally will fight for a second, but then apologize and hug in a moment equally heartwarming as it is hilarious. At the core of When Harry Met Sally is a very simple idea: love isn't about big feelings in the honeymoon phase, but a quiet appreciation for the presence of another person. These two are a great couple not because of how fun they are to watch (though that helps), but because over the course of decades, they exist in the periphery of each other's lives, and yet manage to only grow closer. They both have other relationships that come and go, but even outside of romance, they are constants for each other, and that's a sign of intimacy much greater than anything. And intimacy is what defines great romance. When Harry Met Sally is a classic for a reason, one that won me over for its sheer consistency of tight excellence and lovable heart, making for the piece of media I most connected with by the end of 2022.
Conclusion:
And there you have it. These lists were a long time in the making, to the point we're almost half way through the next year. This three part retrospective proved much more ambitious than I wanted, but in the end, I'm glad that I made it happen. 2022 proved an important year for me in media. If I'd made a list in 2021 (or any earlier year), it wouldn't have had nearly the breadth and variety of content that this one has (neither in medium nor era), and that signals to me growth into healthier media habits. As such, the fact that I have the specific moment of that transition archived in great detail here makes me feel fulfilled. I've evolved as a lover of art (and a self-described wannabe "critic"), and so my enjoyment has only grown with it. I can only hope I've managed to share some of my enthusiasm with you. Here's hoping that 2023 will prove even more fruitful. Thanks to all who read through this, I hope to see you soon in the next one.
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