2492: Fresh Meat

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Fresh Meat is a show by Jesse Armstrong and Sam Bain, of Peep Show fame. Across four seasons, it concerns the lives of a houseful of university students from their initial arrival at university through to the end of their final exams.

I remember watching the first few episodes of the first season and really enjoying it, but for one reason or another I never finished watching that season. More recently, however, I’ve been watching the complete run on Netflix and enjoying it a great deal; much like one’s university life, it evolves and changes over the course of the three years/four seasons, but it manages to maintain enough coherence throughout to feel like a convincing serialised story rather than simply an episodic comedy-drama, which it could have easily turned into.

Part of the reason for its feeling of coherence is the fact that it managed to keep its core cast together for the entire run, and said cast is an excellent lineup. All of them are flawed to one degree or another, but none of them are so far beyond redemption as to become dislikeable. On the contrary, the show frequently demonstrates that behind prominent displays of bravado, there is often someone crying for help or struggling to express themselves.

One of the first characters we see in Fresh Meat is Greg McHugh’s portrayal of Howard. His first appearance is wearing only a jumper, no trousers or underpants, and drying some dead poultry on a washing line across the kitchen using a hairdryer. It would have been easy for the show to keep Howard as a deranged character, only coming out for comedy relief or gross-out factor, but even within the first episode, we quickly see that he’s been designed with a lot more thought behind him. Across the entire run, Howard actually becomes a character that it is easy to sympathise and empathise with, since in many regards he’s the character who makes the biggest strides outside his comfort zone — particularly with regard to social situations and taking perceived “risks” like asking a girl he likes out — and who manages to pick himself up repeatedly after numerous setbacks.

Zawe Ashton’s portrayal of Vod is also noteworthy, as Vod initially comes across as an arrogant, dislikeable young woman with an attitude problem. Her abrasive edge doesn’t dull throughout the entire run of the series, keeping her as a formidable person that most people would probably find tough to get close to, but piece by piece, we start to understand the difficulties she’s endured through her life and why she has ended up as the person she is. Most people probably won’t end up liking Vod as such, but we certainly understand her pretty well and can sympathise with her by the series’ end.

Kimberley Nixon’s Josie subverts the “sensible girl” trope often found in series of this nature. While initially appearing to be the cast member who has it together the most among the group, Josie’s character goes into a downward spiral early in the series, succumbing to a combination of alcoholism, stress and depression that sees her getting kicked off her dentistry course for drunkenly putting a drill through a woman’s cheek, moving to Southampton, moving back to Manchester in the hope of a relationship with fellow cast member Kingsley, and from there seemingly repeatedly sabotaging her own potential for happiness. Outwardly, Josie is one of the most cheerful, optimistic-seeming characters, but as the show progresses, she becomes one of the most tragic figures in it.

Joe Thomas’ depiction of Kingsley initially appears almost identical to his portrayal of Simon in The Inbetweeners — mostly due to his trademark rather sardonic delivery — but over time Kingsley becomes a distinctive character in his own right. Whereas Simon was fairly aloof and detached from the idiocy of the rest of the group in The Inbetweeners, Kingsley becomes a character who consistently tries too hard and often finds himself coming a cropper as a result. His relationship with Josie is initially set up to be the “Ross and Rachel” of the show through its on-again, off-again nature, but in the latter seasons in particular it becomes clear that the two are simply not right for one another. Kingsley repeatedly puts across the impression that he desperately wants to “grow up” but isn’t entirely sure how, with his attempts ranging from developing an interest in composing his own rather emo music to growing an ill-advised and rather pathetic soul patch. His desires are perhaps most explicitly demonstrated in the final season, when he gets together with an older woman and is initially ecstatic about the prospect, even when it becomes abundantly clear that she is not going to treat him well.

Charlotte Richie’s portrayal of Oregon is one of the strongest performances in the show, ironically because of how understated a lot of her delivery is. Oregon, or Melissa as she’s really called, desperately wants to appear cool and it’s immediately apparent from the outset that she’s attempted to “reinvent” herself for university life after a privileged upbringing. She has a habit of getting drawn into positions that initially seem like a good idea at the time, but which quickly turn sour. In the first season, this is exemplified through her relationship with her English tutor Professor Shales; in the final season, we see her mount a successful campaign to become Student Union president only to be lumbered with massive debt, impending legal action and the realisation that she’s little more than a “ribbon cutter” for the people who actually have power. To her credit, Oregon always tries to fight her way out of these situations and is often successful in doing so; while the adversity she encounters throughout the series is usually of her own creation — perhaps deliberately so, given the life of privilege she grew up with — she doesn’t ever buckle under the pressure, and usually comes out stronger and having learned something from her experiences. Of all the characters, she’s probably the least overtly “tragic” in one way or another; in many ways, she becomes the most admirable after initially being one of the biggest fakers there is.

Finally, Jack Whitehall’s depiction of J.P. largely consists of Jack Whitehall playing an exaggerated version of himself, but it really works, at least partly because J.P. is written as more than a one-dimensional “posho” laughing stock of a character. Over the course of the four seasons, we come to understand J.P. as a deeply confused, conflicted young man who doesn’t understand how the world works — like Oregon, he grew up with a life of privilege, but unlike her, he initially makes no attempt to reinvent himself, instead preferring to try and solve his problems by throwing money at them. In an early episode, he learns the folly of this approach when he gets taken advantage of to a ridiculous degree by his former schoolmates, and from here his growth as a character begins. Each time he proclaims that he wants to have “a large one” or that he is desperate to be regarded as “a legend”, it rings a little less true; inside, he’s a man who sees his future looming ahead, but he can’t see what lies beyond the veil at the end of his university life. That’s a scary feeling, and not just limited to university students; J.P.’s struggle to understand how life as a whole works is something that a lot of us can relate to.

All in all, Fresh Meat is an excellent (if occasionally mildly unrealistic) look at student life in the early 21st century. It captures both the soaring highs — the excitement of meeting new people and striking up relationships that may last the rest of your life; the nights out that seem like the most enjoyable, fun times ever — and the crippling lows — mounting debt; loneliness; the uncertainty of your (and everyone else’s) future — and in the process manages to depict a collection of flawed but interesting, likeable characters as they work through one of the most turbulent periods in their respective lives.

2307: The Trip

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When I can’t sleep or am otherwise in a position where I am too mentally impaired to do anything active — in other words, all I want to do is stare dumbly at a screen — rather than, as some people do, put the TV on and just watch it, even if I’m not interested in what’s on, I like to trawl Netflix for things I’ve never seen and haven’t even heard of before, but which sound interesting.

I’ve discovered a bunch of interesting things this way, the last of which was the rather wonderful (if cringeworthy) W1A, and more recently I’ve been watching a show called The Trip, starring Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon.

The Trip is an interesting concept that builds on the fashionable “fake docudrama” trend that began with The Office. Casting Coogan and Brydon as fictionalised, exaggerated versions of themselves, the series follows them as they take a tour of the North of England, stopping at some of the supposed best restaurants in the region with a mind to writing an article for The Observer Magazine. Coogan’s original plan for the trip was to take it as a romantic getaway with his American girlfriend Misha, and still be able to use it as paying work, but prior to the start of the series, she moves back to the States to pursue her own career dreams in Hollywood, leaving Coogan more distraught and lonely than he’d care to admit, only inviting Brydon seemingly as a last resort.

The pair’s trip across the North is largely irrelevant to the main point of the show, though it does take in some of Northern England’s most spectacular sights, a number of which I hadn’t heard of before. Instead, the main aspect of the show is the relationship between Brydon and Coogan, and more specifically how Brydon’s easygoing nature and sense of contentment with his life — even as he is, according to Coogan’s standards, less successful than his friend — gradually draws out Coogan’s true feelings about his situation.

Brydon lives in a small but comfortable family home with his wife and children; Coogan lives in a fancy apartment in London by himself now that Misha is gone. Brydon enjoys his life and calls his wife just to hear her voice, flirt with her and occasionally get a bit down and dirty with her; Coogan calls Misha in the States, sometimes forgetting the timezone difference, sometimes not respecting what she wants, perpetually unusure of what he wants. Brydon brings a sense of levity to any situation he’s in, often filling uncomfortable silences with his (admittedly impressive) impersonations of famous people — something which Coogan is forever frustrated that he’s just not quite as good at as Brydon; Coogan takes everything much too seriously, sometimes admonishing Brydon for his happy-go-lucky approach to life, sometimes clearly wanting to say what’s really on his mind and on one — only one — occasion frustrating a for-once quiet Brydon, who just wants to enjoy the scenery, with a lengthy geological explanation of how the Malham Cove limestone pavement came to be.

The contrast between Coogan and Brydon is potent; it shows two ways you can approach modern life. You can follow Brydon’s path, which is arguably the most traditional, straightforward, unambitious path, and enjoy a happy, contented life while never quite attaining true dizzy heights of, say, stardom or being the top of your field. Or you can follow Coogan’s path, which is a much more significant gamble: throw everything you have into trying to be the best in your field that you can be, and run the risk of being frustrated that other people can’t see what you know about yourself. Coogan’s frustration — outright depression, at times — at his situation is downright heartbreaking; his gamble hasn’t at all paid off, though he does have the opportunity to make one final one by moving to the States with Misha to do a pilot TV show for HBO. By the end of the first season, however, Brydon has clearly rubbed off on him: after what is clearly an agonising session of soul-searching, he decides not to take that gamble, and instead — presumably — to focus on making himself happy rather than continually being let down by his life and the people he thought he cared about.

The Trip is a funny show; it’s a comedy at heart, and the interactions between Brydon and Coogan are well-written, snappy and genuinely amusing. But there are considerably more tragic undertones with Coogan’s own personal journey as the titular trip continues. While Coogan comes across as an arrogant dickhead at the start of the show — and still bears this character trait to a certain extent at the end — as the episodes proceed and we get an occasional glimpse into what he’s really thinking and feeling, it’s hard not to feel bad for him, and the contrast between how his and Brydon’s respective lives have turned out is certainly thought-provoking.

I haven’t yet watched the second season, but on the strength of the first, I’m very interested to. If you like well-written, fairly gentle, character-driven comedy drama with more than a slight tinge of pathos — as many other good comedies have — then The Trip is well worth your time to take on.

2181: Coming to a Head

I generally try and steer clear of Internet drama as much as possible, but sometimes it’s impossible not to see what’s been going on when it’s all over a website you use regularly.

Most recently, Twitter has seen some interesting happenings that make it feel like the ongoing culture war between “loudmouthed, self-professed progressives (who aren’t actually all that progressive at all)” and “people who just want to be left the fuck alone to talk to their friends about things they enjoy without being shamed for it” has been coming to a head. And it’s been kind of fascinating to watch, particularly as the most recent happenings make one wonder what role — if any — sites that provide a means of communication, such as Twitter, have in these sort of sociopolitical debates.

The most recent drama surrounds one Milo “Nero” Yiannopoulous, a writer for the conservative/right-wing news site Breitbart. Nero is, to put it mildly, something of a controversial, divisive figure: he’s brash, opinionated, flamboyantly homosexual and vehemently against the rise of “third wave” feminism — that particular ideological offshoot that we’ve seen in the last few years that seemingly concerns itself more with scoring “victim points” than actually promoting any sort of societal change for the better. At the same time, he’s also someone who stands up for what he believes in, protective of people and groups he cares for and willing to go against the grain when he believes that the “grain” is going in the wrong direction.

I find him quite amusing to read at times. I don’t follow him on Twitter, but in my occasional (non-participatory) explorations of what GamerGate subreddit KotakuInAction is up to, I tend to keep abreast of what he’s been up to, and occasionally feel inclined to read some of the things he’s posted on Breitbart. I don’t agree with everything — many things, if I’m honest — that he says, but I do agree with some others. I find his writing entertaining to read, though, and challenging to my preconceived notions about particular issues. His writing makes me think, in other words, and contemplate how I feel about something, whether or not it’s the same as what he thinks about the thing in question — and that’s something that journalists should aspire to, in my opinion, wherever they are positioned on the overall political spectrum.

Anyway. The issue is with Nero’s behaviour on Twitter, and with his subsequent treatment. He frequently comes under fire for “harassing” people himself, and for “inciting harassment” by drawing attention to things that people have said by using Twitter’s built-in “quote and comment” functionality that they added to Retweets a while back. So strong is the backlash against him that a couple of days ago, his “verified” checkmark was removed from his Twitter account, seemingly as a punishment for the way he had behaved.

Thing is, the “verified” checkmark is not supposed to be a mark of good behaviour or anything; all it’s supposed to be is an indicator that yes, this particular Twitter account is indeed the person or company that it claims to be. And Nero is Nero, no doubt about that. Taking it away for the way he has behaved on Twitter — whether or not you feel that was justified — is, frankly, insane, because it doesn’t stop him being the person he is.

Naturally, as these things tend to go, the Internet reacted immediately, with a wide variety of Twitter accounts immediately rebranding themselves as “Milo Yiannopoulous” and adopting his avatar as their profile picture, making the timeline an occasionally extremely confusing place to navigate. Alongside this, the hashtag #JeSuisMilo — a reference to the #JeSuisCharlie hashtag movement from around the time the offices of French satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo were attacked in Paris last year — was launched in an attempt to show solidarity with Nero and disapproval for Twitter’s peculiar (and, as of the time of writing, unexplained) actions.

Various people, including writer and former Conservative MP Louise Mensch, did some digging and discovered the Twitter account of Michael Margolis, aka @yipe, the “engineering manager” at Twitter itself. Examining Margolis’ retweets, likes and replies to people made it look to some like there were some conflicts of interest going on, with many people alleging that Margolis was inappropriately using his position at Twitter to do favours for “progressive” types — such as reporting Nero through means other than the usual channels.

All this is hearsay and conjecture, so far as I can make out, but it raises some interesting questions, for sure. Twitter is intended to be an open, free communication platform for everyone to use. It’s not supposed to be moderated or policed — with the sheer number of users and messages that are exchanged every day, it’s simply impossible to do so. Instead, Twitter operates on the (arguably flawed) assumption that, much like society, people will naturally peel off into their own groups and interact with one another, with any cross-cultural clashes able to be resolved through use of the mute and block functions — or, in extreme cases, through Twitter’s formal reporting processes.

I have some experience with Twitter’s formal reporting procedures. Some of you may recall a couple of years back I suffered a campaign of targeted harassment from a notorious group of Internet trolls known as the GNAA. At the time, this group were targeting people who were fans of the My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic TV show, and since I’d recently discovered this, I had the word “Brony” (the term for an adult-age fan of the show) in my Twitter profile bio. This, it seems, was an invitation for the group in question to start accusing me of being a paedophile, even going so far as to look up the WHOIS information of websites I’d linked to from my Twitter profile or this site, then phoning up the owners of said websites (which, in this case, were the owner of Games are Evil, a site I was running at the time, and my brother) and repeating said vile accusations.

It was an extremely unpleasant, scary experience, not so much because of the torrent of abusive tweets coming my way — those were easy enough to ignore and block using Twitter’s basic tools — but because it was spilling over into the real world like this. Consequently, rather than simply shrugging the situation off, I reported it to Twitter and to my local police station. The latter were unable to do much about it — I suspected as much, but I thought it was worth doing anyway — and the former were simply useless, claiming that they were unable to intervene in this situation because it amounted to a “disagreement” rather than “harassment” by their definition.

In other words, under Twitter’s definitions, you have to be receiving some pretty damn vile harassment before their formal reporting procedures will actually do anything — or, at least, this was the case back in 2013, anyway. For everything else, you have to just deal with it, or leave the site altogether — which I did for a while, but came back after I felt worse about being alone and isolated than I did about being targeted by trolls.

In a way, I understand the way Twitter reacted the way they did to my situation. I wasn’t directly in danger or anything, and in retrospect the behaviour of the trolls was little more than the sort of casual abuse-hurling you’d get in the schoolyard. This isn’t defending it by any means, of course — I had certainly done nothing to deserve such treatment, and I was genuinely very afraid while it was all going on — but in the grand scheme of things, it perhaps was barely a blip on the radar of Bad Shit happening in the world. By acting upon it, Twitter would be setting a public precedent, and this would then have to be followed up on in future to ensure that their policies were being enforced in an even-handed and fair manner — and I got the distinct impression that Twitter support felt that the whole thing was rather more trouble than it was worth.

This little digression is an explanation of the fact that Twitter is generally very hesitant to intervene in situations where people “disagree” with one another by their definition — and their definition of “disagreeing”, at least as it stood in 2013, was rather, shall we say, lenient. So for a Twitter employee to put across the impression of giving preferential treatment towards particular individuals is not a particular fair and even-handed way to approach the situation. Moreover, Nero’s behaviour in the instances where he was accused of “inciting harassment” wasn’t anything out of the ordinary — he was simply using Twitter’s own tools (in this case, the “Quote Tweet” function) to highlight some things he wanted to discuss or bring to the attention of his audience.

Several interesting questions are raised as a result of this debacle, however. The first is whether or not popular Twitter users such as Nero should be held responsible or accountable for the actions of their followers when they do something to make a conversation or comment public. Twitter does have tools to minimise contact with people you haven’t specifically authorised to talk to you — most notably the ability to make your account private, locking it down to everyone except those who follow you — but at its core it’s designed to be a means of public discourse: the world’s biggest cocktail party, where anyone and everyone is free to wander around, listen in on what everyone is saying and contribute their own thoughts and feelings to a conversation, regardless of whether or not they know the existing participants.

In this instance, Nero was simply using Twitter as intended, so is it his fault if some followers took it upon themselves to be unpleasant little scrotes towards the person he quotes (whom, it has to be said, appears to be a fairly unpleasant little scrote herself — not that this justifies any sort of abuse)? I certainly don’t have an easy answer to that.

The second question raised by all this — particularly Margolis’ alleged involvement, which is yet to be conclusively proven — is whether or not social media companies as a whole or their employees have any sort of obligation to make decisions about users based on political or ideological viewpoints. The argument in this instance is whether or not the removal of Nero’s verified status — his “punishment” — is justified on the grounds that he disagrees (there’s that word again) with the views of third-wave feminism. Or, to take it as a broader picture, whether or not any user should be punished in any way for expressing an opinion that differs from the accepted “norm”, or which some claim to find “offensive”, or which is regarded as “unacceptable” in some way.

You get into dangerous territory with that last section. Twitter is a private company, however, so it is, of course, free to police its platform however it pleases, and if it wants to become some sort of “safe space” where third-wave feminists and their white knight “allies” can happily skip through fields of flowers (not white ones, though, because white people ruin fucking everything, apparently) then that is the company’s decision entirely. Since it has always sold itself as a means of free expression and communication for people all over the world, however, there’s an argument that we are taking a few tentative steps into a somewhat Orwellian area — though it is also worth noting that should Twitter actually decide to go down this route wholeheartedly, the market will be flung wide open for a new, alternative means of communication and expression for people who are no longer welcome under the New Tweet Order.

Personally speaking, I would rather Twitter remain completely apolitical, and continue to act as a means of free communication for groups all over the world covering a wide variety of viewpoints and ideologies, many of which would clash with one another if they came into direct contact. It’s been a valuable tool in times of crisis, such as during the massacres in Paris, the assaults in Cologne over the New Year period, and during the riots in Egypt a while back. More than that, though, it’s brought people together who may never otherwise have had the chance to talk to one another. It’s allowed friendships and even relationships to blossom, and it’s allowed differing viewpoints the chance to interact and attempt to understand one another. It’s been inestimably valuable from that perspective, and for it to start pushing one particular political viewpoint or ideology as somehow “superior” or “correct” would go against this openness that has been its most key feature ever since day one.

More than that, though, regardless of whether or not you think Nero is a twat or a genius, removing his verified status as a “punishment” is just plain stupid. What kind of message, exactly, is that supposed to send? “You said the wrong thing, so you are no longer you?” What utter nonsense.

Perhaps this is why I don’t run a huge, successful social media enterprise. Or perhaps the rest of the world really has gone completely and utterly mental.

2003: Sound! Euphonium

Anime, as a medium, is most well-known for its more exaggerated aspects. Exaggerated action in titles like High School DxD, Attack on Titan and Sword Art Online; exaggerated comedy in shows like To Love-Ru, Squid Girl and Monster Musume; exaggerated horror in shows like Hell Girl and… uh… some others (horror is one angle I’m not massively familiar with as yet). Even pornographic hentai anime tends to be exaggerated, with participants screaming in pleasure (and usually narrating the action just in case it wasn’t already abundantly clear what was going on) and gentlemen ejaculating with the force of Niagara Falls several times in the space of five minutes without any need for recuperation in between.

Uh, what was my point again? Oh, right. Anime is most well-known for being exaggerated. But occasionally something comes along that subverts your expectations and proves that not only is anime a particularly good medium for this sort of exaggerated action — the use of animation means that you can depict things that are physically impossible and/or impractical to show with traditional live-action special effects, as I discussed some time ago — but it’s also a really solid medium for down-to-earth, human, heartfelt and honest drama.

There are a number of good examples of relatively “low-key” drama anime; the most well-known ones are things like Clannad and AnoHana, which are both notorious for being particularly emotional, particularly towards their conclusions. More recently, I’ve been very much enjoying a curiously named show that was fairly popular last season: Sound! Euphonium, also known as Hibike! Euphonium or simply anime-eupho depending on who you’re talking to on which platform.

Sound! Euphonium is a show, like most anime, about high school kids. (There’s a very good reason for the perpetual use of school as a setting for anime, but that’s a subject for another day.) As the peculiar title suggests, it’s also a show about music. But this isn’t an exaggerated Love Live! kind of affair, where the kids involved have unrealistic goals that they manage to magically attain without any real explanation (not that there’s anything wrong with that; I adore Love Live!) — Sound! Euphonium focuses on the rather mundane experiences of a school concert band.

Sound! Euphonium centres largely on Kumiko Oumae, a euphonium-playing girl just starting her high school career shortly after her middle-school concert band just missed out on attending a national competition. Kumiko is wracked with guilt over her last words to her former bandmate Reina Kousaka, who was utterly convinced that their band deserved to go the distance — Kumiko disagreed and incredulously asked Reina if she truly believed that they would have ever made it to Nationals. Reina, understandably, was upset at this line of questioning, and the two parted on bad terms.

Kumiko is surprised to discover that Reina is also attending the high school she chose; she’s surprised because Reina has a great deal of talent on her instrument — the trumpet — and the ambition to compete at a national level. Meanwhile, the school they are both attending has a concert band that, upon their arrival, is best described as somewhat mediocre; Reina had her pick of the prestigious schools in the area, many of which have much better concert bands, but she chose the same one as Kumiko for some reason. It later transpires that the reasons for her decision were something to do with the teacher who takes over coordination of the concert band — and who encourages the students within to push themselves as hard as they can through some harsh but fair methods — and perhaps even something to do with her feelings for Kumiko herself.

What I particularly like about Sound! Euphonium is the fact that it’s one of the most realistic depictions of high school music I’ve ever seen. It takes great care to show characters using their instruments correctly and realistically — and not just while they’re playing them; incidental footage during scenes shows characters cleaning their instruments and performing proper maintenance, too. Having lived the concert band life at school — including some competitions and tours, though nothing at a nationally recognised level — I find Sound! Euphonium’s depiction of this aspect of high school life enormously compelling and pleasantly nostalgic.

One thing it captures particularly well is the inherent romanticism and intimacy I’ve always found in making music as an ensemble. During my hormonal teenage years, the majority of people I found myself attracted to were somehow connected to me through the arts in one way or another — primarily through music. While my feelings were usually unrequited, that never really mattered too much; the thrill of sitting next (or near) to someone I liked and making music with them was usually more than enough. The feeling of “butterflies in the stomach” I’d get on the evening of a concert performance as I shared my nervousness with my friends and the object(s) of my affections was something I found intoxicating and exciting; while it was never the primary reason I enjoyed making music — that was always the simple joy of… well, making music — it was a happy perk.

Sound! Euphonium captures this feeling particularly well in its later episodes. An extremely intimate moment between Kumiko and Reina in one episode in particular makes for one of the most honest, heartfelt scenes I’ve seen in any story for quite some time — and after this scene has taken their relationship to a new level (no, they don’t get it on or anything like that, before your filthy mind starts running away with you, pervert) the chemistry and electricity between these two characters is palpable: every glance between them becomes wistful and lingering; every touch becomes sensual and exciting; every unspoken understanding between them clearly deepens their connection without a single word being said. I haven’t yet seen the entire run so I don’t know how — or if — their relationship resolves itself or pans out, but at the stage I’m currently at, it’s enormously exciting and compelling to see.

Sound! Euphonium is well worth a watch, then, particularly if you’re a fan of somewhat more understated drama. Kumiko is a fascinating character, clearly struggling somewhat with a degree of social anxiety and depression — which, as you may well expect, makes her enormously relatable for me — and her relationships and interactions with her friends and bandmates make for compelling drama. It’s a very honest, heartfelt show, and a marked contrast to the more exaggerated end of the anime spectrum — and for that reason, I have a feeling it will stay with me long after I’ve seen the final credits roll.