To this day, I still don’t really know why I picked up the first disc of Haibane Renmei when I saw it sitting there in the store. I don’t recall ever hearing much about it beforehand, and a quick glance at the synopsis would probably have done nothing to really pique my curiosity. Perhaps it was the moody, ethereal artwork on the cover, or that Yoshitoshi ABe’s name appeared in the credits.

Whatever the reason, though, I did pick it up and subsequently found myself enthralled by the series’ world, almost from the first moment. And to this day, Haibane Renmei remains one of the most unique, thought-provoking, and affecting anime series I’ve seen.

Haibane Renmei‘s greatest strength lies in its ambiguity. Now, much of anime loves to toy with ambiguity and engimatic elements, be it through shadowy character motivations, obscure philosophical/religious/cultural references and discussions, or half-explained technological deus ex machina. But oftentimes, these simply feel like attempts to instill more depth, substance, and style to a series than it really needs, demands, or supports. And so when all is said and done, the weaknesses only become more glaring, and the series more frustrating and underwhelming than anything else.

This is most happily not the case with Haibane Renmei.

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300 is proof that we are living in a bold new era of filmmaking.  An era where, thanks to the prevalence of technology, movie directors can have an almost godlike control over nearly every facet of their movie—right down to the very last strand of hair, bead of sweat, and, in the case of 300, drop of blood.  A director’s vision can now be captured and delivered on the silver screen to an extent that would’ve been inconceivable even five years ago.

Of course, even with that unbelievable level of power and technology, some truths of the artform remain the same.  All of that control is worthless if there isn’t a story lying somewhere at the heart of the astounding visuals, if those visuals aren’t populated by compelling characters.  And in the case of 300, that is painfully obvious from almost the very first frame.

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There are two sides to American history.  There’s the boring side that’s been taught to you by history textbooks and schoolteachers.  And then there’s the other side where, as it turns out, America is actually littered with ruins of ancient and alien civilizations (at least west of the Mississippi), where mad zombie scientists seek to overthrow the world, and where horrific demigods lay imprisoned within vegetables, patiently waiting to be freed from their parallel universe prisons to lay waste to Mankind.

The only bastion of defense against these horrors is Screw-On Head, a secret government operative at the beck and call of Abraham Lincoln (yes, that Abraham Lincoln), and who is, well, a screw-on head with an army of steampunk bodies at his disposal.  And he’ll need them all, because the nefarious Emperor Zombie—once Screw-On Head’s closest friend and manservant before he began dabbling in ancient black magic—is seeking the power of an ancient kingdom to bring the world to its knees.

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There’s nothing more frustrating than watching a movie that just begs for some “Making Of” featurette or extended “Behind The Scenes” footage on the DVD, only to discover that said “Behind The Scenes” footage is merely a half-assed couple of minutes of completely random footage with no explanation, dialog, or commentary whatsoever.  That’s the case with Strings, and here’s why it’s so frustrating.  The movie is a fantasy epic about the futility of war and bigotry, with supposed parallels to the current “War On Terror”, and it’s all done with—you guessed it—puppets.  Or, to be more precise, marionettes.

The movie opens, not with the puppets themselves, as you might expect, but with the puppeteers getting into position, setting the stage, etc.  It then cuts to a shot of the current ruler of the kingdom of Hebalon gazing forlornly to the sky, perhaps seeking some sort of guidance or wisdom from his “gods”.  It’s an interesting transition, immediately raising questions about fate, destiny, etc.

But no answer seems to be forthcoming, as the king writes a painful note to his son before committing suicide.  Overcome by grief at the hatred and war that has resulted from his reign, he opens the way for his son, Hal Tara, to lead Hebalon to better future.  However, the king’s evil brother Nezo, intercepts the king’s letter and hides the truth.  Instead, he claims that Hebalon’s ancient enemies, the Zeriths, have killed the king.  Outraged, Hal Tara vows revenge and sets off to track down the Zeriths, leaving the throne in Nezo’s hands.

Nezo assumes the throne and issues martial law, all the while spurring Hebalon towards greater levels of hatred and military might in order to strengthen his authority.  Meanwhile, Hal continues his quest, blind to the fact that his uncle is using him to conceal the truth about his father, and, unbeknownst to all, a greater and more insidious truth about Hebalon and its relationship with the Zeriths.

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