The Tenge family is reeling in the wake of the post-war American occupation. As they watch their lands in the Japanese countryside get sold off to tenant farmers, the once-rich clan sees the return of P.O.W. son Jiro, who is now working undercover for the American occupation forces. He comes home to find a family rife with sin and dark secrets. His brother Ichiro is letting his own father sleep with his wife in return for the family fortune, resulting in Jiro's new four-year-old sister/niece Ayako. After Jiro is implicated in a high-profile murder case, with Ayako’s testimony serving as the only evidence toward his indictment, the family decides to preserve their honor by locking her away in the storehouse cellar, to be kept there until she dies.

It is a testament to Tezuka's tight cast and vibrant characterization that he manages to keep the story interesting despite its frequent jumps in both time and place. The Tenges eventually spread out into different places and careers, but the connection to the original reasons for Ayako's imprisonment remain a burden upon all of their consciences, thus keeping everything centered around the title character. The small cast helps you create a deeper connection with them, as their relationships and feelings are all easily understood within the structure of their acutely dysfunctional family.

Ironically, though, Ayako herself is little more than a caricature. She emerges from her 23-year imprisonment as an emotionally stunted young woman, completely ignorant of many customs and ideas that come naturally to most people. This simplistic personality can get a little grating after a while, and it certainly makes her character hard to connect with, but Tezuka makes it clear that he intends her odd behavior as an expression of her tragic upbringing.

Speaking of tragedy, Ayako is horrifically sad beyond any other Tezuka manga I have ever read, and in fact beyond most other manga, period. With murder, rape, and incest throughout, this is not a book for the faint of heart. Sometimes it feels like Tezuka is just throwing in more tragedy for the sake of making you sadder, but it all ends up serving the author's ultimate message: a condemnation of secrecy and hidden sin. In the end, what destroys the characters is a compounding of everything they have ever done (and not done) to other people. As the vessel for the Tenge family's sins, Ayako gets the brunt of their love, hate, compassion, and anger, making its conclusion all the more impactful.

Throughout Ayako, Tezuka revels in the vastness of the Japanese countryside, providing beautiful full-page drawings of hills and fields alongside meticulously drawn cityscapes. Additionally, he tries his hand at recreations of photographic images, a technique that accentuates the historical relevance granted by his frequent references to real events during the Japanese reconstruction. It's also worth noting that only a single character from Tezuka's Star System (the detective Geta) shows up in Ayako, a very deliberate choice that serves to detach the characters and their predicaments from the sometimes whimsical worlds of Tezuka's other works.

Vertical's translation is great as always, but this time they've brought on Mari Morimoto, well-known translator of manga like Dragon Ball (1984) and Naruto (1997). The one notable facet of the translation, which may be credited to either Morimoto or the editors in charge of revising her translation, is the depiction of the characters' country accents. All of the Tenges speak in a Southern American accent, depicted phonetically in what I can best describe as the manga equivalent of a Mark Twain novel. I find that it adds a welcome sense of place to the work that manga often don't have, but some might find that they can only read "Naw!" so many times before it gets a little grating.

EDIT: Naturally, no review of Ayako can go without mentioning that it is flipped (i.e. reads left to right) and features beautiful art direction — from Peter Mendelsund — both inside and on its striking hard cover. Clearly Vertical did both of these things in order to promote it among literati types (as opposed to your average teenage manga fan in Barnes & Noble) as they did with Buddha (1972), and it does a great job. The flipping is an unfortunate consequence of this, but it should hopefully help the book find an audience outside of the manga crowd.

Ayako isn't quite perfect, mostly due to Tezuka's over-reliance on tragic twists and the title character's flat characterization, but as an examination of sin and long-term guilt, it is a powerful story, almost Shakespearean in its penchant for melodrama. Fans of Ode to Kirihito will find much to love here; in fact, its dedication to only a few locations and a centrally connected cast of characters makes it a little more accessible than the sprawling epic that is Kirihito. Be warned, however: Ayako is manga at its most tragic — in this seemingly endless bout of sin and suffering, no one is safe from the taint of evil, and no one is spared its consequences.

[Highly Recommended]

This review is based on a complimentary review copy, graciously provided by Vertical, Inc. (and given away to an Ani-Gamers reader after this review was written).

Reminder: Ani-Gamers is giving away copies of Ayako to two lucky readers. Check out the contest rules to enter!

The plot itself is about a group of kids who grow up in the late 1960s and go through all the usual school stuff — cultural events, bullies, making a secret clubhouse, and creating an ominous club symbol. It is also, at the same time, about the same kids who have grown up to become rather disappointing adults in the late 20th century, a time of much trepidation due to the growing prominence of a cult sporting the very same symbol from the 60s as its logo. The story jumps between these and other epochs at will, bringing a whole new dimension to the story with its use of different concurrent timelines.

The art in the series is flat-out wonderful — in the settings, in the characters, and every interaction that occurs there is a visible level of care and attention. Simple things such as one person patting another on the shoulder have a level of detail and thought that makes it a joy to read. A well known tale is that when Viz licensed 20th Century Boys and Monster together Urasawa requested for Monster, the older work, to be fully released 20th Century Boys was released as the level of development in the art would make Monster appear the poorer series for the direct comparison. While you could easily chalk this up to artistic pretension it turns out to be true — the level of detail lavished on Boys makes the already well-drawn Monster look almost sterile with its comparative lack of finesse. Most of all, it has to be the Urasawa's use of light and shadow that captures the imagination — using the two to lay out a scene, to depict characters, to hide or illuminate elements in the scene and to help draw the eye across the page and manage the flow of the story.

All this works marvelously, and kept me gleefully glued to the page while reading. The storyline rewards frequent re-reading — each new volume brings its own new answers that help place previous things into a proper context. This can also work the other way around — you can unwittingly read an important answer and hold on to it for volumes before finally finding the question and all becomes clear. You feel like an active participant in the mystery, where instead of just sitting back and waiting for the ending you are rewarded for looking for answers yourself.

For me, and also for others I have talked to about this series, there is a make-or-break point in this manga that comes quite early in its extensive 24-volume run. In volume 5, the plot prepares for a huge event that includes almost all of the principal members of the cast that you have met thus far. The tension is running high, and things feel suitably apocalyptic. Something you have been teased about and which has been hinted at for the balance of the manga so far has come to take its place on center stage. Something massive is about to be revealed, and at this point I would honestly have been satisfied with the reveal no matter what it turned out to be. The time felt right, you are holding onto the comic for dear life, you turn the page and then … nothing.

At this point, instead of revealing anything, the storyline undergoes a massive jump, moving to a fresh new setting and then proceeding to set up new mysteries and new characters as if the series was starting afresh. While some readers may like this switch, I certainly did not. I read the remainder of the fifth and the newest sixth volume with a feeling of deflation — the previous tension and awe with which I held the plot had leaked out of me.

I can fully understand the thinking behind keeping the details hidden — showing only hints or after-effects of the monster at work is much more effective than just pulling out a plastic model with fake gore dripping off of it, after all.

Sadly, I now feel that unless a similar climactic situation is built up that the reveal that would have been will not have the same impact. This also makes me question the structure of the plotline — does this “non-reveal” forecast a similar pattern for other events and revelations to come in the series?

Despite my doubts, I fully intend to continue reading the series to find out what happens, and given the way the series plays with timelines, what happened. The stellar quality of the title as a whole means I would be doing myself a disservice if I were not to continue reading, and I would be doing you readers a disservice by not endorsing it as an enthralling work of fiction with wonderful characters.

Important note: While this holds true for a lot of series, do not read 20th Century Boys wikipedia page if you are at all interested in the series. I used it for some quick fact-checking for this review and as a result have now been spoilt in regards to some major plot elements.

[Highly Recommended]