In this alternate version of shogunate Japan, the population is mostly women due to the plague of the red-face pox, which infects and kills most men before they reach adulthood. Women work the fields and run the government, while men are protected and prized for their seed, which fetches a high price. Deep in Edo Castle is the Ooku, the inner courtyard where hundreds of men live solely for the purpose of providing their services to the emperor. It is in the Ooku that Mizuno Yunoshin, a handsome young man of low birth, and Tokugawa Yoshimune, the newly-minted emperor, meet. After their encounter, Yoshimune realizes how strange certain traditions are and seeks the truth in the “Chronicle of the Dying Day.”
I’m not the only one out there who cringes a little bit when Netflix announces that they’re producing an anime of a series they like, right? I’m talking about the ones they fund and act on the production committee for rather than just licensing. For a moment, let’s leave aside the binge-dump format, which is antithetical to how most dedicated fans consume anime. The adaptations they’ve been involved with are plagued with issues. They tend to be overly literal, aiming for a shot-for-shot remake of the manga with limited animation; the main exception being 7SEEDS, which rearranged the original manga in a way that showed zero understanding of its intricate structure while also looking like total butt. Over the years, their approach has resulted in some subpar adaptations of excellent source material. Therefore, when they announced Ōoku, I didn’t feel I could celebrate alongside other manga fans.
As it turns out, my worst fears were far from being realized… but my greatest hopes didn’t exactly come true either. Once again, Netflix has brought us an extremely faithful adaptation with stolid animation that struggles to surpass “just okay.”
Don’t get me wrong; Ōoku‘s story is excellent because Fumi Yoshinaga‘s manga is excellent. The script, penned by newcomer Rika Takasugi, hews closely to the original and makes few changes if any at all. Yoshinaga’s complex character writing and nuanced exploration of patriarchal systems come through fully intact, except for the rare moments where the animation holds them back. In 1635, Japan closed its borders to all but a few Dutch traders who still had extremely limited access. This closure was ostensibly to eliminate foreign influence, but what if there was another pressing reason to prevent other nations from knowing what was happening within Japan’s borders? A reason that would make them vulnerable to foreign invasion, and rival nations would be all too happy to take advantage of it. What if it became a nation mostly of women seen as lesser than men in most of the world?
In the hands of a lesser storyteller, this could have easily led to a girl-power fantasy where everything is instantly better because women are superior to men, a harem series, or a dozen other simplistic directions focusing solely on the war of the sexes. But not Ōoku, oh no. The 80-minute first episode, which could stand alone as a film in its own right, takes place several generations after the red face pox dramatically shifted the gender balance. Women are fully in charge of the government, while men are protected and treasured. The young man Mizuno enters the Ōoku, and the seven-year-old emperor dies shortly after. Yoshimune, a member of a branch family, takes over and is horrified by the wastefulness she sees at every turn, including the keeping of dozens of young, fertile men solely for her consumption.
Yoshimune and Mizuno are both extremely compelling characters, though sadly, they are only present in the first episode. Neither of them is the kind of person who follows tradition for its own sake, and their questioning of why things are the way they are gives way to the rest of the story, which starts anew when the pox has just begun to ravage the male population. Mizuno refuses to accept the hierarchical bullying and jockeying for power that becomes endemic in places where people are powerless to leave but also have little to do or a sense of purpose in their lives. Yoshimune, who wasn’t raised in court culture, questions why certain traditions exist, such as women bearing both masculine and feminine names. In doing so, she invites the audience to question those things along with her. This is a brilliant move on the part of the writing, functioning both as a storytelling device and underlining the story’s themes.
Many viewers were disappointed when the story moved away from Yoshimune and Mizuno, which is perfectly understandable; the two have beautiful chemistry, and Yoshimune herself is a charismatic figure: powerful, no-nonsense, and intelligent. However, her story is more or less completed by the end of the episode, and Mizuno’s very much so. What follows is no less gripping: the origin of the Ōoku, created by Lady Kasuga for Iemitsu, the first female shogun. At first, it served as a repository of samurai who could protect her, and then it effectively became a harem. Kasuga, Iemitsu, and Arikoto, a former monk whom Kasuga kidnapped to force into the harem, form a triad of driving forces, each seeking to build a place for themselves in this new world.
The character writing, story, and themes interweave together, forming a beautiful and troubling tapestry of a society where patriarchal systems remain intact even when women must take charge. Kasuga, Iemitsu, and Arikoto are all balls of trauma and tragedy, contradictions, and complexity as they try to find solid ground when things keep shifting beneath them and stopgap measures become permanent. None of them asked for their lot – Iemitsu never wanted to be a shogun, locked away so that nobody could ever find out the truth of her gender, but she becomes an intelligent leader and ruler. Arikoto was a monk until Kasuga effectively kidnapped him and forced him to enter the Ōoku, but he fell in love and chose to stay even when he could return to monkhood. Lady Kasuga was the daughter of a disgraced nobleman, disfigured by smallpox scars, who became a wet nurse to the emperor and was a gifted politician in her own right. It’s a testament to just how nuanced the writing is that their contradictions don’t make them come across as inconsistent but as human, with a full range of emotions. The sense of humanity is bolstered by the fact that Iemitsu and Kasuga are real historical figures with many of the same accomplishments as their fictional counterparts.
Ōoku is very much a “people sitting in a room talking” kind of story, which means a strong script can more than make up for lacking animation. However, the mediocre-at-best production values mean that the visuals rarely, if ever, actively bolster the script. The storyboarding rarely goes beyond cycling through shots, reverse shots, and mid-shots, with the occasional zoom. I can only dream of a version headed by someone with a strong directorial voice, as Mamoru Hatakeyama did with Showa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu, brimming with style shifts, affective color, and framing to emphasize the emotional power of each scene. Noriyuki Abe is experienced and typically competent, but whether it was due to a restrictive or rushed production environment, a story outside his wheelhouse, or just a poor effort on his part, his work here was not up to his usual standards. At times, the poor animation goes so far as to ruin the mood, particularly in any scene that involves physical intimacy. There was a notable lack of chemistry, despite powerful vocal performances, and in one case, I ended up laughing out loud as Arikoto and Iemitsu’s bodies jerkily twitched back and forth as they kissed; they didn’t look like two adults in love so much as two Barbie dolls having their faces pushed together to make them “kiss.” It’s devastatingly unsexy, a huge mood-breaker, and can’t be saved by even Mamoru Miyano‘s powerful vocal performance.
The Japanese cast is a true tour-de-force, helmed by all-stars like the aforementioned Miyano, Tomokazu Seki, and Kikuko Inoue, among others. They dispense with the exaggerated performances that characterize most anime voice acting (which, to be clear, is generally fine for the kinds of stories they’re telling), turning to a greater degree of subtlety that suits the script. Every single cast member is excellent, but Miyano as Arikoto and Eriko Matsui as Iemitsu especially tugged at my heartstrings. Sadly, the English cast is the opposite – by and large, they are unremarkable, and Arikoto’s voice actor killed any dramatic momentum as soon as he spoke. Netflix dubs are usually strong, so this was a disappointment.
There are some odd quirks to the subtitles as well. Some may find this more accessible than the English translation of the manga since it doesn’t use the clunky faux-Elizabethan dialect. However, there is some awkward and inappropriate use of slang. Normally, I’m fine with teenagers using slang because that’s how real teenagers talk, but it was jarring to see a young man in 17th-century Japan call a monk “dude.” It doesn’t happen too often, but it’s quite egregious when it does.
I would never dream of recommending that people stay away from Ōoku in any form – it’s simply too good for that, too powerful in its feminist themes. At this time, a ten-episode anime on a streaming service is far more accessible to most people than a manga, where all 19 volumes must be purchased separately. However, it’s always sad to see an adaptation that’s watchable solely because of the strength of the source material, whereas the new version adds nothing of its own. Watch the anime, watch one of the live-action series, read the manga – whatever works.
