Behind The Nihon Review

Growing up.

“We were all maidens once.”

Warning: Contains spoilers for Simoun.

Seeing as the conclusion of our yearly recruitment drive yesterday marked my two year anniversary here at the Nihon Review, I felt a considerable pang of nostalgia and went back to read some of the very first posts I’ve written for Behind the Nihon Review. My first post received multiple insightful comments for which I am extremely grateful for; I also believe that responding to the thoughts of others has helped me shape not only my own views, but also improved (I hope!) my ability to write and communicate. So in celebration of my ability to have survived two years as an irregular blogger, I want to take up once again the subject of my very first blog post—gender and narrative—but this time through a dissection of meaning in Simoun.

In my humble opinion, Simoun is a series that repeatedly flies under the radar because it’s a difficult series to classify. No one knows if it’s yuri or mecha, drama or romance. The opening episode throws viewers straight into the action with little explanation, and perhaps the only thing that makes it truly stand out right from the beginning are a cast of all girls and the fact that the said girls have to kiss in order to operate machines that blow up enemies. Simoun, in this sense, is a trap because the tantalizing initial marketing strengths belie a much deeper, complex, and well-executed examination of one of the most universal themes in human culture: growing up.

Evidence of the diverse assessments of Simoun’s strengths is obvious with a quick search on Google with the words “Simoun”, “anime” and “blog”. One of Kurogane’s first posts on Simoun cleverly captures perhaps the most superficial way to view the series in his chart of the relationships between Chor Tempest girls (though he later wrote that the chart was inconsiderate after having watched more of the series) as if he was watching a serious soap opera. Our own Shadowmage begins his review of Simoun already within the framework of yuri; the opening sentences of his review suggest that Simoun cannot escape the chains of its categorization:

“Niche anime typically rely more on fanboy gimmicks rather than actual quality to attract an audience. … Hailing from the well-known sub-genre known as yuri, Simoun is most definitely a niche anime, but it ingeniously twists its characters and plot into a riveting, edge-of-your seat piece of entertainment.”

Shadowmage later argues that the characterization was insufficient in eliciting his empathy. This point, interestingly, is in stark contrast with other bloggers who commented on the characters as being the most fundamental aspect of the show that kept them engrossed in the series. Many of these writers further noted that there was a mountain of things left unexplained and unanswered in Simoun, including an ambiguous ending that was considered good by some and bad by others, but these bloggers also tended to focus on the plot and characters, with only a splatter of mentions regarding art and music. Hashihime has provided what I consider to be the most thorough account of why the series is “an artistic success, but appears to be a commercial failure” by pointing out how many people were put off by the show’s approach to gender.

I don’t think one can talk about a core underlying message of Simoun without addressing the show’s treatment of the sexes. We viewers go into the setting with preconceived notions of gender roles, something that is fundamentally tied to the culture that each of us is raised in. Superficially, the shows has girls kissing each other, and such an act immediately raises categorical flags amongst less discriminating viewers to label the show as yuri fanservice, which makes it a trap. Yet as far as I can tell, the show isn’t about the romance between girls, but rather how romance takes shape in so many interesting and diverse behaviors in its purest form. This theme is executed in a way that has evoked strong emotions from some viewers, making the series successful, but it can also be considered a failure for those letdown by what they expected to be a series that should have been filled with Strawberry Panic!-style yuri.

Let me back up here by providing a set of claims as for why Simoun is not about gender, but uses gender to get at deconstructing an underlying, universal theme. I think the choice to make all characters female, prior to the ritual at age seventeen when they choose their gender for adult life, is deliberately made in order to emphasize a notion of child-like purity and innocence, the two of which are sharply contrasted by the constant strife brought about by war and religious government. Simoun is clearly not the first story to depict young girls as such; the ancient Greek word Sybil, from which the plural Latinized form ‘Sybillae’ used in the anime comes, refers to priestesses who had the ability of foresight, who were human but also had elements of supernatural power. Vestal Virgins in ancient Rome were not only religious symbols: they were sponsored by the state and considered critical to the functioning of society.

Religious elements in Simoun are fitting in light of the material that some of its unique terminology draws from. The conflict between Simulacrum and Plumbum are both secular and religious, with the Plumbish side possessing their own share of young female priestesses, signifying the connection between religion and war, which is something complex, nasty, and determined by adults who have already chosen their gender. Priestesses on the enemy side still respect the Sybillae of Simulacrum, and in various scenes are shown as torn between their duties to their country (during the events leading up to Mamima’s death) and their acknowledgement of one another as ultimately the same (which is depicted in the concluding episode’s Ri Maajon of The Morning Calm).

Graffiti from the final episode.

Second, I think there is a strong sense that Simoun plays on the concept of sexual differentiation both biologically and socially in its story by illustrating the growing pains of children entering a difficult world. For example, the concept that all individuals are born women arguably stems from the biological fact that the clitoris and penis are homologous organs (though this idea should be taken at most biologically since sex chromosomes are already determined during fertilization). Choosing a gender is arbitrary as well; individuals can desire to be one gender or the other, and those that cannot decide are instead given one, such as the case of a previous Chor Tempest Sybilla who, unsure of the gender she wanted to become, came out of the Spring and subsequently broke down (episode two). Another example is Onashia, who was punished for resisting the call to decide her gender.

Characters that choose their gender are no longer eligible to remain Sybillae, and are thus removed from the position of priestess. Although it’s never explained exactly why such a mechanic exists, it’s strongly suggested that there is a sense in which these individuals are now a part of society that is outside of the circumscribed life of the child priestesses, something that is implied in the few glimpses the viewers are given of the general public’s interaction with Sybillae. To choose one’s gender is to forever lose out on something that was once possessed by all, and entering society is proof of that loss.

Third, the characterization leaves strong dynamics among the Sybillae, but at the same time function as a testament to the child-like innocence of these girls. It’s important to note that among Chor Tempest, it is the eldest ones who, considering their own coming-of-age, try to instill rules upon the younger members, though this backfires throughout the entire series thanks to the rebellious main heroine Aaeru.

The topic of childhood later takes center stage toward the middle of the second season, during which Chor Tempest is disbanded and the seven of the remaining Sybillae are required decide their gender. In the glorious finale, a rejection of the imposed rules that outside forces (Argentine and Plumbish) have demanded, the girls attempt to send off Aaeru and Neviril off to perform the Emerald Ri Maajon so they can escape the same fate as them. We see in the final scene of the series a shot of the silly graffiti drawn on the walls of the Arcus Primus, and a celebration through dance by Aaeru and Neviril on the ballroom deck of the ship to music (Sahashi Toshihiko’s Youen Naru Kizuna no Hibiki, meaning “echoes of a bewitching bond”) playing from a gramophone.

It is only after seeing the graffiti on the wall in this final scene do the interactions among Sybillae earlier in the series obtain meaning: relative to the calculated goals of the adults, the Chor Tempust girls’ world consists of their pure emotional relationships to one another in all of their various forms, rather than any attempt to achieve a hidden agenda. A cast of all girls also makes sense in this context because the show is depicting how the child-like Sybillae behave without the conceptual baggage that comes with gender.

Finally, space and time function as a suiting plot device for the overarching theme of childhood, for the passing of time and the changing of physical space have no affect on the existence of Sybillae. This is demonstrated by Limone and Dominuura’s successful return to the past, where they train new Sybillae to usher in the destined future that they come from, knowing full well they were propelling a continuous cycle that united past and future. Sybillae transcend time, much like how child-like qualities are an integral aspect of the human condition, and our heroines Aaeru and Neviril become “Eternal Maidens” at the end of the series. Thus, the superficial yuri elements belie a complex and—at least what I have considered to be—a more gender-neutral theme of childhood. The girls symbolize eternal maidens, but the term maiden perhaps only refers to girls so much as everyone is, in a sense, a girl before they grow up.