Writer Erika Yoshida’s talents shine in Maebashi, which isn’t so much about revolutionizing the world as imagining achievable ways that everyday girls can make the world a better place. And nowhere is the show stronger than in its exploration of fatphobia.
This show ended up being a standout, not just in the BanG Dream! universe but in the realm of idol/music anime more broadly. What really stuck with me was the way all of the characters, with one in particular, were allowed to showcase the full breadth of human emotions in a way that this genre doesn’t always allow.
Particularly in how it integrates canonical queerness and themes of gender identity within the text, D4DJ manages to go places that very few franchises in its peer group manage to do.
Ultimately, the game universe makes clear that “facing yourself” is more concerned about fitting into society than personal growth. And though individual characters may seem to subvert normative expectations of gender and sexuality, the game ultimately reifies those roles, forcing all characters into societal norms that stand contrary to the glimpses of their more rebellious authentic selves.
While many people can maintain a healthy relationship with them as entertainment personalities, others developed an unhealthy level of parasocial attachment, particularly to the female creators. These parasocial fans have caused incident after incident, making the space unsafe to VTubers and the audience alike, and are even suspected to have caused some of them to “graduate,” or retire from streaming. The most infamous of those incidents is the case of Kiryu Coco.
Contemporary virtual YouTubers are often characterized by a mix of conventional femininity and “unladylike” behavior. Yet, while the most prominent creators are able to explore more varied and even subversive topics than traditional idols, they are in many ways still beholden to a set of rules and expectations for what an idol “should” be.
Even now, with the vast increase of explicit queer womxn’s representation on television over the past decade, I still see myself in Sailor Moon and The iDOLM@STER more than I see myself in Orphan Black.
Much like the wider idol industry, when it comes to virtual idols, the picture is mixed.
In the 1990s, when this film debuted, Perfect Blue accurately predicted a hostile atmosphere in the entertainment industry for women. We can identify similarities between the #MeToo movement, both the Japanese and American pop industries, and Mima’s mind-breaking plight.
Love Live! has attracted legions of adoring fans, and you probably won’t be surprised to learn the core target demographic is straight men. So what is it about Love Live that attracts so many female and queer fans? And how do we as female and queer fans feel about being involved in a franchise that nominally accepts us but has not traditionally been for us?
If you were to ask a layperson what an idol is, they’d likely think of the scandalous stories that come out of the industry. While these scandals shouldn’t be ignored, they often form the entirety of the discussion, ignoring idol content that doesn’t conform to such negative stereotypes and all the good that idols can do. To properly improve the industry, it’s just as important to promote the positive elements as it is to criticize the harmful ones.
“Idols as hope” is an inspiring setup. That is, until it’s undercut by the notion of “idols as product.”
In its depiction of women’s anger and frustration with patriarchal norms, 18if shows the potential for feminist commentary. However, any points it might have made are ultimately undercut by relying on the male protagonist to resolve all conflicts.
