The line between authentic and synthetic has become as thin as it can get, whether by choice or because of the way the world is today. When we look into it deeper, we can see the similarities with Jean Baudrillard's “simulacrum,” a copy without an original, where the representation of something becomes more real than the actual object itself. Animation is an ideal way to explore the concept of “simulacrum” and how it translates into our reality.

A history of animation aesthetics could be written simply by watching a Gaul drink the potion of Getafix the druid, in that famous quarrelsome village nonchalantly defended from Roman conquest by Asterix and Obelix, the indomitable duo born from the imagination of René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo in 1959. In the recent Netflix television series Asterix and Obelix: The Big Fight (2025), Asterix, having downed a sip of the magic brew, soars into the air and begins to change colour, transforming into cyan, magenta, and then yellow; the three colours of print.

When Cyberpunk: Edgerunners (Hiroyuki Imaishi, 2022–) was released, it quickly gained attention for its intense action, emotional storytelling, and striking visual style. Set in the same universe as Cyberpunk 2077, the series dives into the chaotic world of Night City—a place where technology is advanced, but human life often feels disposable. At first glance, it looks like a fast-paced sci-fi story about crime and survival. But beneath that surface, Edgerunners offers something more subtle. It presents a sharp critique of capitalism, one that is built directly into its world, characters, and visual language.

As discussed in Part 1, Shiori’s locket in the Japanese anime series Revolutionary Girl Utena (Kunihiko Ikuhara, 1997) begins as a sealed object that preserves an image and holds desire in place. Once opened, it is no longer an object or vessel made to sustain the appearance of stillness and the stable fantasy that it contains. In this second blog post, I will place the “Black Rose Saga” in dialogue with Krzysztof Kieślowski’s Three Colours: Blue (1993), drawing on the work of Slavoj Žižek to think through fetish, fantasy, and the strange space “between two deaths.”

Revolutionary Girl Utena, the Japanese anime television series that first aired in 1997, follows Tenjō Utena, a tomboyish girl who dreams of becoming a prince and knight in shining armour. Upon entering the fantastical and highly hierarchical Ohtori Academy, Utena soon entangles herself in the ritualised duels of the Student Council, fighting for the mysterious Rose Bride, Himemiya Anthy, a figure objectified by those who compete for her hand. The series has a particular cyclical structure, with each episode lasting less than 30 minutes and structured into three narrative sections—episodes 1 to 13 form the “Student Council Saga”, episodes 14 to 23 comprise the “Black Rose Saga”, and episodes 24 to 39 conclude with the “Apocalypse Saga”. The structural arrangements highlight the series’ heightened theatricality, resulting in a tightly choreographed work with a recursive and self-reflexive mode of storytelling. As the series unfolds, Utena’s story spirals into a vibrant phantasmagoria with variations on themes of adolescence, trauma, desire, and revolution.

When Arcane (Riot Games/Fortiche Production, 2021–) first came out, most people focused on how beautiful it looked. And that makes sense. The painterly animation is striking right away. But what really makes the series stand out is something deeper. It shows class conflict in a way that feels almost physical. Not just through the story, but through the world itself. In Arcane, inequality is not explained to you. You see it instantly.

Upon watching an animated television programme or a feature film, we do not always think about how it came to be. I do not mean what was involved in the production process, or the direction, rather about why it looks the way it does. Indeed, the American animation industry, over the course of a hundred years, has continually changed and evolved from what it has been before in drastic ways. With indie authors becoming more and more prominent within the animated landscape, we might witness a further new tide in the industry regarding the kinds of stories being told and explorations into the medium’s creative freedom. Still, since I was a child U.S. animation has evoked many questions in my mind. How did the American animation industry evolve over the course of its existence? How have it changed to become what it is now?

Anyone who has spent some time at film festivals will be familiar with a certain tendency in non-fiction cinema: film-makers turning process into therapy, and their film itself into a document of their psychological and personal journey as they deal with unsolved family issues or the need to find identity or come to terms with loss or (rarely) happier aspects of the human condition. A number of titles come to mind even as I type: from Chantal Akerman’s No Home Movie (2015) to Marusya Syroechkovskaya’s How to Save a Dead Friend (2022). It is very much a formula, the popularity of which owes more than a little to the widely-held belief, among programmers and agents, that these films fulfil their obligation to the art-house crowds (you can’t go wrong with meta-cinema) while also basking in the broader appeal of shared human experiences.