The anime adaptation of Takopi’s Original Sin is the extraordinary result of a bold producer, an overlooked director, and an up-and-coming studio joining hands to make choices others don’t dare to. A tough path, but in the end, a stunning embodiment of the series’ plea for communication.

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If you are sensitive to depictions of physical abuse and suicidal behavior, I would advise approaching Takopi with care. Even if those topics aren’t outright triggering for you, this is a show best experienced when you’re in the right headspace for it; regardless of its hopeful message, you can get stuck in the swamps of misery it explores in ways that obfuscate the most interesting aspects of the series. If you feel prepared for it, though, feel free to proceed. I wouldn’t be writing about it if I didn’t think it’s a great work.

There are two intersecting paths worth retreading if you want to understand why the Takopi anime was such a spectacular experience. The first one corresponds to a profession that we don’t examine with as much attention as those on the creative side: producers. Mind you, looking up the term on this site would lead you to dozens of articles, but they tend to be side characters we bring up because they revealed neat trivia, or perhaps to best illustrate the networks of professional relationships in one project. When you’re focused on the artistic merits of anime and the labor conditions around it, the plain truth is that most producers range from neutral to somewhat detrimental on the former aspect, while being inactive in changing a harmful status quo for the latter.

That’s of course an oversimplification; it’s not true of every producer, and the term as we used it in the previous paragraph encompasses many different roles with completely different responsibilities and interests. Even if you move past animation producers, inherently closer to the teams of artists, there are proper suits whose motivations and choices have tangible, fascinating repercussions on a creative level. One such producer is Kotaro Sudo, whose eccentric antics we already covered in a translated interview illustrating his role in one of the most outrageous TV anime of all time.

Sudo marches with his dangerous children, up to some nefarious plans. In another interview held by his current employer, Sudo explained that his real passion is music not generally associated with anime—a field that he frankly didn’t know all that much about. He admitted not to have as thorough a knowledge of every piece of otaku media that gets published as some of his peers do. Rather than compete at their straightforward numbers game that targets telegraphed hits, he prefers to stumble upon unique works others don’t dare to approach. Mind you, this isn’t to say that he doesn’t care about their financial performance, but rather that he’s guided by a strong belief: if you’re the only person creating one type of work no one else is, and you do a solid job with it, you immediately own that niche market. This mindset alone can’t earn you success, but it has fueled a so far rather successful career.

Sudo further outlined how he then faces the teams gathered for these unusual projects. As someone without artistic sense, he’d rather not get in the way of their workflow. What he can do, however, is nudge them in directions that they might already want to explore. Within his projects, it’s not just the titles themselves that are outside the norm, but often the specifics about the production as well; Sudo’s first meeting with any creative team involves asking them to compile all the ideas they’ve ever had that were turned down or deemed unfeasible in other places, which helps him win them over and reinforce that one of a kind feeling.

What he doesn’t explicitly say, but is obvious when you examine his career and how others talk about him, is that he’s also an outlandish person who gravitates towards odd works. Be it in his early publicity roles (Seitokai Yakuindomo, Yosuga no Sora, Penguindrum), his first few roles as producer (Joshiraku, Muromi-san, Shimoneta), or his most recent titles now that he’s an established name in the field (please watch Bravern), his outrageous personality magnetizes him not just to less treaded genres but also to inherently weird titles.

The clearest manifestation of Sudo’s philosophy is the topic of the interview we translated: the bold anime adaptation of Pop Team Epic. As detailed there, Sudo came across the manga and felt strong potential… just to be met with skepticism when he pitched the project to higher-ups at King Records. Veteran Akio Mishima, who eventually served as its executive producer, informed him that in their field you have a once-in-a-lifetime chance to push for one specific project. And so he did, not only getting it approved but making the company singlehandedly fund it—a fact that Pop Team Epic then repeatedly ridicules in the show itself, with its nasty protagonists happy to burn King Records’ money.

And yet, it worked. A show that gloats about being shitty, one that welcomes a wild range of experimental artists, and even sports a never-before-seen structure and rotation of voice actors. All of it proved Sudo right: make something unique, nail it, and you’ll immediately be the king of a viral niche. You might think that the producer who planned it all had the perfect chance to stick around the company and gloat about his successful bet that led to an unplanned sequel, but in Sudo form, he did the unexpected and left King Records. Entrusting Pop Team Epic S2 to his equally fearsome protegee, he refused to capitalize on his (according to others) unexpected success in a safe way, and instead joined broadcasting network TBS to further his career as a producer.

Although Sudo has popped up in some interesting titles since then, a recent interview with Mantan confirms that we’re only just now seeing the first projects he planned when he joined his new workplace. The first one is a theatrical production adapting, of all things, educational snacks. Tabekko Doubutsuis a fun way for kids to learn the names of animals, now brought to life by the same studio behind the animation in Lupin the 3rd and the Sonic films. In an era defined by communication through social media and other online means, Sudo saw a universally enjoyed concept like snacks as a still-relevant physical link. And, as the flipside of such a wholesome idea, the producer also targeted a way heavier work with communication as the theme: Takopi’s Original Sin. Cookies and an unflinching depiction of child abuse, just your regular 1-2 punch after joining a new company—at least in a mind like Sudo’s.

The aforementioned conversation with Mantan allowed the producer to prove his understanding of the source material, as well as the responsibilities of handling such sensitive topics. Sudo went as far as saying that merely gathering technically skillful, flashy animators would have been pointless if they didn’t understand the themes of the series; something to keep in mind when examining the people who are (and their acquaintances who aren’t) in important positions among the team. His own relationship with the series had gone through an entire arc as he processed his feelings about it. It started with appreciation, but also worry about its extreme content being decontextualized and taking a life of its own as memes during the manga’s publishing. Eventually, Sudo concluded that original author Taizan5 was weaponizing the impactful events to draw attention to his plea for better, more honest communication.

Ever since then, the producer began charting a plan so that Takopi could retain its original edge; one that shouldn’t be overly sharpened, shedding away too much precious detail, but also not blunt and overused. The core idea behind his solution is rather simple, but to understand why it matters, it’s worth considering something: what is the most limiting aspect of serialized anime storytelling? Perhaps contrary to popular belief, I would say they’re not the scheduling and often poor conditions, nor the rules—written or not—about the content that may appear on television. That is, keeping in mind that all of those are factors, so they should be considered when you wonder why any team has made a particular decision.

However, the most ruthless restriction is something that is so casually ingrained that we take it for granted, despite its repercussions being more fundamental. It’s a simple matter: the regulation of runtime. The most common form of serialized anime is, by a landslide, TV shows. These projects inevitably involve building around 30-minute slots, which also account for commercial breaks. This leaves us with episodes around 24 minutes, with 3 of them being dedicated to an opening and ending with their own fixed length. Although it’s possible to operate in multiples of these numbers, with double-length episodes being relatively common occurrences, that does not change the fundamental paradigm. And in the same way that this is all regulated weekly, the seasonal structure is just as rigid; shows exist in 12/13 episodes cours as that is also how TV programming in general is organized, meaning that departing from that introduces friction producers don’t want.

It goes without saying, but stories aren’t born as uniform pieces that will lead to a satisfying conclusion when you stack exactly a dozen of them. This is especially not true in the case of adaptations, the bread and butter of TV anime. The internal structure of the source material wasn’t beholden to such regulations—and if it was beholden to any, it was to a different medium’s, conducing to other forms of pacing. This mismatch is to blame for many series compositionSeries Composition (シリーズ構成, Series Kousei): A key role given to the main writer of the series. They meet with the director (who technically still outranks them) and sometimes producers during preproduction to draft the concept of the series, come up with major events and decide to how pace it all. Not to be confused with individual scriptwriters (脚本, Kyakuhon) who generally have very little room for expression and only develop existing drafts – though of course, series composers do write scripts themselves. woes in this field, and yet, that chronic nature of it makes people too quick to accept that this is just how things are.

It’s worth noting that the status quo is, twisted as it may be, more comfortable than the scary prospect of change for the production side of things. This may help you understand why the era of streaming has at best slightly altered those numbers, even though the root issues are irrelevant to online videos. In the end, it’s the inertia of classic workflows and the possibility to dump these works on TV eventually that wins, hence why web series end up being virtually the same. Non-creative reasons of the past continue to fundamentally impact how stories in serialized anime are told, even as we face the future.

All that said, an illness being chronic doesn’t mean that there are no palliatives. Creative teams regularly navigate these issues, finding ways big and small to challenge the norms. Those efforts, as well as the struggle that comes with them, are plenty apparent in the most inspired adaptations of this current season. The Summer Hikaru Died’s director Ryouhei Takeshita is also acting as its series composer, leading a quiet restructuring of the series; not one bereft of downsides, but also understandable in how it tries to mold the overarching story to these limitations inherent to the format. Even as you consider the losses in accelerating certain aspects of its mystery, eroding the precious feeling of disorientation at the beginning, this might help it reach a satisfactory enough conclusion with its limited number of episodes.

In a less narrative-dependent title, but a highly interconnected one, the team working on CITY at Kyoto Animation brought over its original author Keiichi Arawito decide which parts should be adapted and even expanded when animating it—prioritizing the atmosphere over the mere inclusion of events. Given that the TV broadcasts for the studio’s works are almost entirely accompanied by their own commercials, KyoAni are able to increase the runtime each week to the point of effectively having entire extra episodes at their disposal. In the same way that particularly important moments in TV anime led to openings and endings being skipped, these seemingly smaller choices can also go to great lengths to maximize the resources.

Another important aspect is understanding the specific charm of the work you’re dealing with, and thus the dosesthat will suit the experience the best. Again, the rigid structure of TV isn’t welcoming to distinct approaches, but that doesn’t mean there are no exceptions. Short shows—usually combined with similar titles to fill the regular 30-minute slots—are a common enough occurrence, and sometimes companies are willing to push for less conventional solutions as well. Look no further than the current Food Court anime that has opted for 6 full-length episodes. When compared to your average light webmanga adaptation, which overestimates how long one might want to sit to watch something conceived to scroll through social media or the likes, the project demonstrates a good understanding of the source material’s appeal. It helps, of course, that it’s a very amusing series for starters; you can read a bit more about it in our recent Patreon notes.

What about Takopi, then? Much like Food Court, we’re also dealing with short source material. Clocking at two volumes that compile 16 chapters, the series would have needed to be fleshed out a significant amount to be able to fill an entire cours. While the team has shown their willingness to add further context to the events in a way that feels organic to Taizan’s vision, Sudo was vehemently opposed to stretching the series to regular length. After all, Takopi’s nature makes it so that overstaying its welcome isn’t merely an issue of pacing, but potentially a corruption of its message and potency.

Its desire to depict the dark realities of child abuse is already tricky to balance with the inherent exploitative feeling of visiting such topics, so what happens if you stretch it to twice the length? The show would be wallowing in misery for too long, increasing the chances of veering into tastelessness, crudely dulling that edge through repetitive tragic motions. Understanding that the choices about Takopi’s episode count were made not because there weren’t enough pages for more, but because those who planned it truly got what those contained, is key to grasping why this adaptation was off to a great start.

In that sense, it’s worth pointing out that Sudo encouraged the team to also challenge structural norms within the episodes themselves. Since the earliest conceptual stages and at his suggestion, it was decided to make proper use of the streaming platforms it was heading to; which, as we mentioned earlier, rarely happens even this many years into the era of online distribution. For as neat a choice as it is to allow the opening (1:10) and ending (1:05) to challenge the minute-and-a-half standard, the bigger deal is that each episode of Takopi is as long as the creators felt was most fitting. This allows for cohesive grouping of chapters and flexible delivery of each of them, not conditioned by any specific runtime target. 37:47, 21:35, 26:28, 23:41, 24:36, and 22:22 minutes long episodes demonstrate their willingness to depart from the norm in either direction, adapting that weekly runtime to the specificities of each carefully curated chunk of the story.

Any and all thoughtfulness during pre-production can go out the window if you don’t have the right team, but Sudo’s bold bet once again paid off. Back in 2022, the same year Takopi finished its short serialization, he contacted an animation production company that had never created a show; scratch that, they had never produced one single episode of anime. Let’s talk about the other major actor in this project: studio Enishiya.

Founded in 2018 by producer Shunsuke Hosoi, Enishiya used all the connections it inherited to hit the ground running. A surface look at Hosoi’s career may paint the picture of an individual closer to the planning and business side of things, which would lead you to misjudge his distance with the creative crews. That’s why it’s worth noting that, especially during his tenure at TOHO and through projects like Hanebado!, Hosoi grew demonstrably close to notable artists. This includes individuals like Naoki Yoshibe (not by coincidence, a regular within Enishiya projects since the beginning) and even the person who’d eventually become Takopi’s series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario.. As the CEO of his new company, he’d help pull strings on all levels; one of their most important relationships being with Genki Kawamura’s TOHO subsidiary STORY, for whom they immediately helped produce Tenki no Ko commercials alongside ex-KyoAni animator Chiyoko Ueno.

With Hosoi busy leading the studio, younger management staff had to step up for various production duties. Hiroshi Mitsuhashi—of White Fox pedigree—was the first one to do so, but the person who helped them make the jump was animation producer Kei Igarashi. Having gained experience at studio 3hz during their era as a hotspot for young talent, it took little time for Igarashi to become Enishiya’s go-to producer for their most important challenges. Not only does that remain true in 2025, but he’s also become the co-CEO following Hosoi’s quiet disappearance earlier this year. This is a role he now shares with Yoshihiro Furusawa, whose links with TOHO and STORY ought to protect the lucrative relationship that has always helped the studio.

Chances are that, perhaps without realizing, you already enjoyed Enishiya projects led by Igarashi circa 2019-2022. Their name may not have been big on its own, but they proved to be capable of crafting visuals that lived up to the fame of others—and not just plain ads like those for Tenki no Ko. Their first major accomplishment was the production of the Raison d’Etre music video in 2019. The short film was a collaboration between director Ryu Nakayama and superstar designer Mai Yoneyama, marking Enishiya’s first massive congregation of top-of-the-line animation talent. In addition to living up to the technical demands of Yoneyama’s designs, it also stood out as a striking portrayal of the struggle with one’s identity, with very blatant gender readings.

There would be no shortage of amazing music videos produced at the studio in the following years, always accompanied by (and sometimes blending into) more purely commercial jobs to keep a healthy influx of cash. Every time they would put out one of those more ambitious projects, the magnetism between exceptional creators would bring new people to join their impressive, growing net of relationships. That much is true of their 2020 successor to a certain Rie Matsumoto MV, but most importantly, Chinashi and Moaang’s stunning echoes of FLCL in Sore wo Ai to Yobudake. Not content with that, they also had time to put together other gorgeous short films like Massara, built upon the intimacy and acting finesse of Keita Nagahara—another technical maestro who learned the ropes at KyoAni’s Osaka branch. Even a concept as ridiculous as literal Ed Sheeran sakugaSakuga (作画): Technically drawing pictures but more specifically animation. Western fans have long since appropriated the word to refer to instances of particularly good animation, in the same way that a subset of Japanese fans do. Pretty integral to our sites’ brand. could lead to impressive results if you trusted this crew.

This might help you understand why, even though they did not have even one episode to their name, a producer like Sudo was inclined to trust them. While that was true when Takopi’s planning began, it’s worth noting that the studio did participate in a few high-profile TV productions between 2022 and 2024. Their debut with Do It Yourself #05 (directed and storyboarded by Eri Irei, now known as Rikka) was beyond impressive. The episode is up there with the polish of the greatest showings in a gorgeous anime, attuning itself to the sensibilities of a show that is all about creating things with your hands—good thing they have a team capable of animating with as much delicacy as potency! As a production effort, it demonstrates their care for the craft in practices like the domestic-only in-betweening; not as a matter of nationality, of course, but to dodge the myriad of issues many encounter when subcontracting those tasks overseas.

The following two episodes produced by Enishiya finally earned them broader acclaim, in no small part due to the massive popularity of the titles they were attached to. Dungeon Meshi #06 fit perfectly within the show’s high-profile outsourcingOutsourcing: The process of subcontracting part of the work to other studios. Partial outsourcing is very common for tasks like key animation, coloring, backgrounds and the likes, but most TV anime also has instances of full outsourcing (グロス) where an episode is entirely handled by a different studio. strategy. Once again, they didn’t accomplish everything through sheer brute force. The first half of the episode has a holistic charm to it, thanks to the fact that the returning Nagahara (director and storyboarder this time around) animated all of it alongside co-supervisor Hiroaki Arai. The two of them, though particularly the former, use the impressive depiction of physical space to condense multiple panels’ worth of gags into a singular amusing screen. And with the energy they conserved with this approach, the second half of the episode uses those volumetric qualities of the animation in much more explosive ways. Standouts in this regard include Ren Onodera and Toya Oshima—the other animation director and veritable Swiss army knife within Enishiya’s regular team.

What about the third episode produced by the studio? Although Takopi’s series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. had worked with this team before, his role as the director and storyboarder for Frieren #14 feels like the perfect cue to introduce him and his understated charm. Which is to say: meet Shinya Iino, often referred to as his online persona Ponte. The final lead character in this production is someone you may affectionately call an ascended sakugaSakuga (作画): Technically drawing pictures but more specifically animation. Western fans have long since appropriated the word to refer to instances of particularly good animation, in the same way that a subset of Japanese fans do. Pretty integral to our sites’ brand. nerd, known not just as a creator but as an active participant in animation-focused communities. Within the industry, he first rose to prominence among the management personnel at Kinema Citrus in an era where they were synonymous with exciting young talent; curiously, as a direct predecessor of the similar phenomenon we mentioned earlier regarding 3hz.

Ponte established himself as an episode director still within that golden age, contributing to the likes of Barakamon whilst steadily climbing up the ranks. Looking at that side of him, though, doesn’t tell the full story. Ponte’s presence within the Japanese sakugaSakuga (作画): Technically drawing pictures but more specifically animation. Western fans have long since appropriated the word to refer to instances of particularly good animation, in the same way that a subset of Japanese fans do. Pretty integral to our sites’ brand. community isn’t merely a piece of trivia of the past, but rather an aspect of his that evolved alongside his professional career. Even the fact that he launched his own radio program can be seen as a bridge between fandom and active contributors to the industry—especially if you consider how many people around that program have had similar trajectories. This includes names like** Yuji Tokuno** aka Mutobe(director of one of the most impressive episodes of the year in YAIBA #06 and set to make his series direction debut soon), Masato Nakazono aka zono(one of the most reliable up-and-coming directors orbiting around MAPPA right now), or compositing superstar Fukkun, just to name a few.

Given those bonds with communities with a passion for animation, and a growing resume that showed he could translate those interests into compelling television, Ponte’s perception has always been positive among people in the know. What about broader audiences, though? Those who are less likely to perceive artists unless they lead an entire project were more doubtful of him. The reason was simple: the harshly limited animation in Dr. Stone’s early seasons tanked Ponte’s stocks, as that was what his name was most visibly tied to. It’s true that the first season of Made in Abyss—where he served as the assistant series director—is a critical darling, but it was other, more visible creators who received all the acclaim. And that brings us to another interesting characteristic of his: even when playing a role in beloved works, Ponte’s style isn’t necessarily as eye-catching as his more renowned peers’, despite often being one of the soundest contributors to their productions.

Apart fromPonte*‘s direction,Frieren #14 also features Nagahara as an animator and the presence of many people who turned out to be integral toTakopi‘s production.*

We can wrap all this around to Frieren #14, which happens to be an excellent showcase of those broadly undervalued skills. In its first half, the dispute between Fern and Stark is delivered with a degree of emotional clarity not present in the original work. Ponte shows his fundamentals in the usage of shadows with their obvious implications within a storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue., still blending them with enough naturalism that you don’t roll your eyes at the bluntest metaphor possible. Despite not being the type of director who’ll rock the boat, he does happily adapt to scenarios where the animation muscle is actually present, adding characterful ideas like ash falling when the titular character pets Sein. It’s very much his modus operandi to understand the scope, adapt his ideas to it, and then accumulate enough crafty ideas to quietly make a difference.

Ponte’s grander ideas arrive in the second half of that episode, though again, they’re not bombastic in a way that a lot of people will pick up on them—not in a show with that much firepower. Of course, that doesn’t make them any lesser; Frieren #14 is all the much better for his comedic depiction of the cart-jacking and Frieren’s memories, the emphatic buildup (exploiting Ponte’s great control of physical space) to what quickly proves to be a bad strategy, and countless more details like making sure the characters sway constantly as the creature flaps its wings. Often, his greatest quality as a director is that those small additions feel so natural that the viewer will simply take them for granted. Adaptable directors who are happy to keep a low profile are easily overlooked, but don’t take that to mean that they’re mediocre at their job. As Ponte demonstrates, that isn’t necessarily the case.

By entrusting everything to such a deceitfully capable director and studio, Sudo’s vision of an impactful but also thoughtful realization of Takopi became possible. The level of draftsmanship across the whole show is impressive, consistent in quality right up to the final stages yet surprisingly diverse in stylistic angles. There is no denying that it’ll be one of the greatest anime productions of the year; in a regular season, it would easily take the crown for the summer, but a metropolis-shaped abnormality has gotten in the way of that. It’s no exaggeration to say that this has solidified Enishiya’s growth as the most textbook rise within the industry in recent times. While other new studios (like CyPic or Soigne) have immediately made a lot of noise upon their arrival, Enishiya’s gradual escalation feels like the example to follow. If they proceed to make carefully chosen, spaced-out full series and theatrical offerings over the next few years, they’ll have completed the most perfectly step-by-step growth in scope you could hope to plan. Rather impressive, considering they haven’t sacrificed their quality along the way.

Takopi has benefited from all the positive aspects we’ve explicitly shouted out, as well as some that we’ve left implied. One of the reasons it was important to note that the planning began all the way back in 2022 was to make it clear that the actual production also spanned an unusually lengthy span of time—hitting two years for those most deeply involved. That is mandatory when you aim to create animation with these standards of quality, though conversely, don’t take their results to mean that it was a breeze. Takopi’s production only wrapped up a few days before the broadcast of the last episode, with some members of the team rather burned out by the nature of the title and its demanding quality. Although it never dips to worrying levels, you may have noticed that the finale in particular has no room for extra flair. And, even if that hadn’t been the case, the fact remains that they cut it close by the end. A studio that tries to act the right way like Enishiya still isn’t immune to these issues, especially given their ambition.

As important as it is to keep that in mind, rather than the ending of it, we should consider the early stages of this project some more. I believe you can approach Takopi from various angles, but frankly, many of them would result in a frustrating, self-defeating experience. Ponte’s wish not to relish in the violence, alluded to in his own interview with Mantan, is a fundamental precept that put him on the same page as the producer at the genesis of this project. That said, the director also mentions embracing the viewpoint of one of his mentors: Masayuki Kojima, who led the aforementioned Made in Abyss with Ponte under his wing. When facing similarly heavy works, Kojima is a proponent of tackling every single topic originally explored, though also the type of creator to take a quiet step back to keep a watchful eye on the characters. In Takopi terms, that means not shying away from the depictions of abuse even if (and to a degree, because) those are tough to swallow, but also not zooming in on the violence so much that you forget about the personhood of the victims.

Even with that core stance established early on, there was more nuance to the framing that took longer to solidify. Ponte mentions a pivot from a more Shizuka-centric angle, which would have put the viewer in the shoes of a victim of parental neglect and severe harassment in school, to the story as we finally experienced—a camera closer to the titular alien, with its naive yet also admirable optimism. This is in line with the team’s wish to deliver glimmers of hope off the bat; sure, Takopi is an ultimately uplifting tale, but it’s easy to forget that across the often-miserable events that lead to that conclusion.

Choices like ever so slightly approaching the happy octopus and adjusting Shizuka’s pants to be brighter add up to a feeling that, for as dark as the situation is, there is some hope to that world. This latter choice was of course made by color designerColor Designer (色彩設定/色彩設計, Shikisai Settei/Shikisai Sekkei): The person establishing the show’s overall palette. Episodes have their own color coordinator (色指定, Iroshitei) in charge of supervising and supplying painters with the model sheets that particular outing requires, which they might even make themselves if they’re tones that weren’t already defined by the color designer. Yuki Akimoto, one of the best in the business, but it’s worth noting that so was the former. Consistent with his position of allowing others to shine around him, Ponte is also very open to feedback from anyone in the team. His broad understanding of animation leads to the belief that, if you’re intertwining it with storytelling, then all its elements are pieces in the same puzzle. Compartmentalization can be useful from a management perspective, but buying into it too much from a creative standpoint is inherently limiting. Sure, the main role of individuals in color and design duties isn’t to write a story on paper—but theirs are among the tools that will ultimately breathe life into that script. And so, you might as well listen to their big picture vision as well. Not a coincidence, then, that Takopi also entrusted Awoi Otani with the color scripts that define much of the texture of the adaptation (just like they’d already done for the surprisingly atmospheric Makeine anime!).

If we delve into the first episode, the series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. does indeed leave the spotlight to someone else: character designer and chief animation directorChief Animation Director (総作画監督, Sou Sakuga Kantoku): Often an overall credit that tends to be in the hands of the character designer, though as of late messy projects with multiple Chief ADs have increased in number; moreso than the regular animation directors, their job is to ensure the characters look like they’re supposed to. Consistency is their goal, which they will enforce as much as they want (and can). Nagahara. In the manga, Taizan matches the roughness of the events with their own raw, pointedly disheveled drawings. This is the type of illustrative quality that tends to get lost when adapting things to animation, which requires countless drawings and for them to be able to move. Given this project’s exceptional circumstances and Nagahara’s own skills, though, he goes line for line with the original author when it comes to depicting the consequences of abuse. Ponte explained that this degree of reproduction—and even elevation—of this aspect was so costly that they couldn’t use it willy-nilly. Whenever possible, though, Nagahara’s pen was there to take the show to the next level. And boy, is that first episode a showcase of that.

It goes without saying, but the reason why this is such an important point in Takopi isn’t the technical achievement required, but its visceral effect on the viewer. When going over Nagahara’s previous work, some aspects that stood out were the depiction of space and the tangible animation. The former increases the immersive feeling, leading to the type of layout that makes this series even more reminiscent of the cult classic Alien 9 anime. However, it’s the latter that makes a difference for Takopi. Whereas Nagahara has used this tactile quality before in tender ways (we still get some of that with his own key animation here), the commitment to a style that makes you feel like you can touch the animation has an entirely different effect when you’re dealing with such horrifying events.

Before any depiction of abuse, preceding even the opening itself, the harsh reality of Shizuka’s life is palpable in the weariness of her backpack. The severity of her situation is gradually conveyed through details like that, with an impact that far transcends the objective pieces of information like “her belongings are old and have insulting words written all over them”. Once the full extent of the abuse becomes explicit, the already gut-wrenching events become even more uncomfortable through artwork; a style that isn’t realistic, yet packs very thorough detail that magnifies the effects of real violence. I believe that overall, this is part of what makes this show so special, though it admittedly is overdone in spots. The rendering of Shizuka’s wounds is so ghastly that it challenges the suspension of disbelief, especially in later episodes where she’s very visibly injured while in class. A tough pill to swallow, even accounting for the subjective framing, and too close to a type of gratuitousness you don’t want given the sensitivity of these topics. In the end, though, small issues given the tremendous upside.

Another central concept in Takopi, especially early on, is the usage of contrast. There is an inherent clash between a happy-go-lucky pink mascot and the crude events, and the anime attempts to develop that friction beyond the manga’s reach. In that regard, tentoten (10+10) and their role as the Happy Artist are another point of interest. The narrative follows a series of kids who, each with a unique bitter flavor of mistreatment, have been denied the joy of childhood. The bursting imagination born from an untainted mind is instead depicted through Takopi, an alien hailing from a culture so wholeheartedly built around positive feelings that they don’t even have vocabulary for violence. Consequently, it’s the scenes filtered through its point of view—memories, the few solo escapades back to its birthplace—that are depicted in an entirely different style, akin to what we might find in a picture book.

To put those together, tentotenwas in charge of a parallel, solo production process that led to visuals closer to what one might see in non-commercial animation; we can’t forget that they were an independent animator before CSM catapulted them to fame, and that they remain active in that space. When watching the show along with viewers, Ponte recalled the non-chronological way that the series-wide Happy Artist role came to be. Although he didn’t meddle much in the cut distribution for episodes other than his own, he had originally requested tentoten to give special treatment to a pivotal scene with Takopi during the fifth episode. As it came together, Ponte liked the result so much that he decided to retroactively apply this all-encompassing approach anytime that Takopi’s worldview had to be rendered. It may not have been originally planned, but this was an excellent swerve into what has now become one of the cornerstones of the Takopi anime.

Across these early stages of the story, contrast remains a central concept. One of the most memorable introductions of such friction comes at the very end of episode #02. While the schedule didn’t allow for the entire series to use film scoring, they were able to selectively apply that approach as the director saw most fit—and understandably, that was the case for this closing scene. After watching Shizuka endure so much harassment at the hands of her classmate Marina, even Takopi’s overwhelming optimism is being tested; no matter how many Doraemon-like gadgets it uses, how many times they redo the events, tragedy always awaits. As the flipside of those Happy Artist moments, the storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue. uses Takopi’s subjective perception to illustrate why it’s compelled to spring into action… and how that leads to the accidental murder of Marina.

Even in such an immediately dark series, this becomes the most shocking event you’ve witnessed at this point. Anyone would be overwhelmed by negative feelings, save for one exception: the child who has been systemically denied a sense of normalcy, for whom the death of her ruthless bully is a reason to rejoice. And this is where the music plays a key role. Ponte had vaguely asked for a classical-like piece of music to capture this discrepancy, but it was sound director Jin Aketagawa who specifically suggested to(mis)match this objective tragedy with Shizuka’s perceived feelings of triumph through Vivaldi’s Spring. Apart from the sheer impact of the scene, moments like this also help underline that these two lead characters parallel each other in a fascinating way. Both Shizuka and Takopi are effectively aliens who haven’t experienced regular, peaceful human coexistence; the tragedy being, of course, that Shizuka should have had access to the type of life that would allow her to conclude that this wasn’t a positive event.

Mirroring those tonal clashes, the episode also deliberately deploys stylistic whiplashes to illustrate the mismatches in perception. That much is true of the first episode, but the flavor in the following one is rather distinct. Even as the grittier detail still gets used to show the darker side of this story, its realization is noticeably different from the first episode; much thinner lines this time around, matching character art that does a whole lot more implicationcompared to Nagahara’s explicit detail. This isn’t an accident, but rather the natural result of Moaang’s central role in episode #02. As the storyboarder, director, and animation supervisor, the departure toward more naturalistic animation is an excellent example of how Takopi’s framework gives plenty of pivoting room to specific artists.

We observe a similar shift in the third episode, as another artist takes a similarly central role. Compared to Moaang’s preceding work, it’s certainly not as extravagant, but the reasons why have very little to do with Eri Irei’s undeniable skills. For starters, it’s worth noting that Takopi’s directorial team was small. Assistance aside, it effectively contained only 4 members working alongside Ponte. Among them, half were individuals whom the team actively reached out to. Specifically, Moaang and the person who led the fifth episode went through that guest treatment. In contrast, the other two got the job by virtue of being employed at the studio and having the sophistication that the team was looking for. Unfortunately, that poor Irei got a heavy job dumped on him with little input, which helps explain why his experience in particular was so mentally draining.

Again, this isn’t to say that the episode is worse because its director struggled. If anything, Irei is somewhat similar to Ponte in that he excels in such a casual manner that you’re led to believe that great filmmaking happens on its own. As the story opens up more to the other kids around Shizuka, this episode does an excellent job of illustrating those new perspectives. Through his storyboards, Irei puts you in the shoes of Naoki: born to a seemingly more stable family, but clearly neglected by a mother who barely recognizes his personhood. The quivering of the camera matches his confusion when he stumbles upon this accidental killing, while the transitions and body language allow you to understand that he happens to be susceptible to Shizuka’s perhaps inadvertent manipulation. There is a toxic chemistry between the two that is never verbalized, for starters, because he wouldn’t even have the words to properly explain why his childish mind associates those two women in his life. And when you can’t use words, you need the finesse that Irei’s direction quietly delivers.

In addition to those glimpses of Naoki’s everyday struggles, Marina’s passing and her replacement with a shape-shifting octopus also provide a real taste of the everyday experience in another broken home. Like basically every father in the story, Marina’s dad is absent; in his case, on an emotional level, compared to Shizuka’s dad who has physically left everything behind. Irei’s storyboards convey that by constantly obscuring his expression, while Takopi in Marina form tragically misreads the conflict in this household as lively rather than violent. Even more than the violence it experiences as Marina’s mom takes everything out on her daughter, it’s the knowledge that this was once a happy family that really hits Takopi’s mind. Notably, the thing that first disappeared from this family is what the series yearns for: real