Just so you guys know, the following contains spoilers for the following series:

Gundam 0080: War in the Pocket
Kimagure Orange Road
Twelve Kingdoms
Macross Plus
Haibane Renmei

You’ve been warned.

Character deaths, sacrifices, and other related scenarios tend to be where a series hits you hard. For me, the quest involved tends to make or break the effect of the instance. I did not feel for Aeris when she died. Shocked, yes — I didn’t expect it. But lacking sympathy for her, the event did not actually move me. For me, Aeris’ story means little. It has great bearing on the entire plot, but the actual exposition of her character never touched me.

For me, one of the most effective deaths in anime history has to be Bernard “Bernie” Wiseman from Gundam 0080. He becomes Christina “Chris” Mackenzie’s love interest throughout the story, but the two never get to resolve their relationship. Why? Simple.

Chris kills him.

Chris doesn’t mean to, keep in mind. She’s a Federation pilot, while he’s a Zeon loyalist, charged with destroying the new Gundam “Alex”. He has no idea that the machine’s pilot is the woman he’s fallen in love with. No one has any idea, except for poor Alfred “Al” Izuruha, child and friend to both Bernie and Chris. He hears Bernie’s last message on a video tape. “Say goodbye to Chris for me”. Bernie is charred to a crisp by the Alex’s beam sabre, leaving Chris to never know what she’s done.

For me, this moment could not have been wrought by Tomino. Fumiiko Takayama is known for virtually nothing else save this, a single episode of Bubblegum Crisis 2032, and Patlabor WXIII, but he shines in this moment as a director. He managed to make me cry, not only for a brief few seconds, but for minutes at a time. From the horrible moment of the event right through to Bernie’s final message, I cried. It was an intense moment in the narrative, worthy of the emotion.

Bernie dies for his ideals, while Chris does right by her duty. What is damning about it all is that a good man has died and will not be remembered for anything. He will remain an unsung hero of the war, glossed over for the atrocities to follow, be it at the hands of the Titans or Haman Karn. The only person we know of who will remember what has happened is Al, who is left to his own personal misery.

Sometimes it isn’t a character death that makes you cry however, but the difficult choices one has to make. In Kimagure Orange Road, there is a great deal of build-up to the inevitable conclusion. Through the series and its spin-offs, you watch Kyosuke Kasuga as he wrestles with his affections for both Madoka Ayukawa and Hikaru Hiyama. If you take away the esper powers Kyosuke has, the romantic triangle becomes no less compelling, and indeed the show made less and less use of deus ex machina as it progressed.

At the end, Kyosuke tells Hikaru that he’s going to be with Madoka. Like a gunshot through the heart, he shatters Hikaru’s dreams of romance and brings closure to literal years of indecision. Having followed every last moment of Kimagure, I couldn’t help but feel Hikaru’s pain, Kyosuke’s hard choice, and Madoka’s conscience about it all. It wasn’t a horrifying moment like Gundam 0080’s conclusion, but a feeling that hits very close to home. We’ve all been in love, sometimes — no, oftentimes without it being returned. But Hikaru was led on and on because Kyosuke didn’t know what he wanted.

In one way, you can’t blame Kyosuke. He didn’t want to hurt her, and he’s a really nice guy by definition. Hikaru’s also about as smart as a brick when it comes to her romantic feelings, and being so one-pointedly fixated on Kyosuke, she couldn’t see up or down about the matter. In the end, it’s a bitter truth that both parties have to deal with. Kyosuke has to let her go, and Hikaru in turn has to let it all go.

Between bitter truths and sacrificial deaths, you can often come away from a series pondering its conclusion. Some more cynical or pseudo-intellectual critics will cite one thing or another as “typical” or “predictable”. So be it. But these sort of critics are the worst. They have no actual interest in the emotional value of the movie, only in their opinion of its tropes. While they will on one hand acknowledge that everything has been done and so nothing is new, their actual disposition towards the viewing experience is to pluck it apart for their own egotistical satisfaction. This sort of critic’s opinion is worth less than that of an illiterate valley girl, because at least she may have been touched by something and appreciate its emotional value. Granted in a superficial way — but at least there is less of an ego involved.

For me, emotional value in a series is extremely important. I don’t love Twelve Kingdoms because of its ponderous nature. I love it because I can relate to Youko’s struggle, to Rakushun’s behaviour, and to Shoryuu’s attitude. I love these characters not for how they play into the story as tropes, but for the meaning they lend to the narrative. We see each of their tales bound up with misery. Suzu in particular has some of the worst karma, and while it is frustrating to see the victim complex that emerges in her, it’s understandable. She’s been so badly beaten and abused that I found myself sympathising with her, despite how she acted towards certain people. Shoukei on the other hand… God I wanted to slap her. But that too is a good thing; it means I’ve bonded with that character, even in hostility.

In terms of personality, there seem to be two general ways you can bond with a character. The first is on an egotistical level — a young man fancies himself a Goku or a Vegeta because he admires their strength and power. This sort of bonding is usually harmless, but can become annoying if it’s taken past a certain point. The second kind of bonding occurs when you can relate to a character, but do not fancy yourself as them. This is a more mature and controlled sort of egotism, which I would term “personalism”. Personalism is just that — you relate on a personal level because of your own experiences, not with the whole character but with their journey.

In terms of a moment however, I think we all can relate the same way. You either get it, or you don’t. It may be that in order for someone to “obtain” a moment, there has to be a level of maturity involved. A child may not understand Kimagure’s moment. Why? Because they have not yet experienced those things (at least in their present incarnation). Mind you, some moments are not necessarily graded by age, but by experience itself. While we may all go through Kimagure’s moment in our teenage years, we may never be able to associate with Gundam 0080’s. Why? Because we don’t understand war — we have never taken the time to learn the nature of the beast.

Of course, sometimes a thing can be put across well enough on an emotional level that experience is secondary. I think this may be the case with Gundam 0080. Someone can be horrified by the implications due to their understanding of war, but someone can also mourn the situation because of their romantic leanings. It’s difficult to say whose reason is more valid, yet the fact is they both “get” what is going on. That much is important.

Macross Plus is a good example of this. Few people would ever be in the position of Guld Goa Bowman. To have so completely blocked out an unhappy moment of your life and to blame it on another person is not something most of us will experience. If we have, then the moment is more potent, yet this experience is not necessary for us to sympathise with the parties involved. Isamu Dyson is the fall man — he knows it and accepts it. Myung Fang Lone has promised to keep it all a secret as well, so as not to hurt Guld. They love this man, despite all hostility. When the truth is revealed and he sacrifices himself so that Isamu can rescue Myung, there is a deep humanity there that anyone can relate to. We would all be Guld if we could — or at least, we would pretend to be him. We would wish for that strength, that commitment. We “get” it.

Sacrifice is something I think you know of as a young person, and then forget for a time while in your teenage and young adult years. It’s sort of the social nature we’re subject to. Everything begins to revolve around working for yourself, and so we become like Guld and his companions — wrapped up in our own worlds. Being a believer in natural human goodness, I like to think that Guld demonstrates humanity quite well — arrogant and cynical, often in denial about our faults, yet capable of great compassion and great self-sacrifice.

If we take a look at yet another example, Reki from Haibane Renmei is a good candidate. Her pathos is that she is a cursed woman, unable to free herself from her moment of death. A Haibane moves on only when they resolve their past and are freed from it. Reki has been stuck in Glie for years now, and while she has Nemu as a constant companion, she knows things are getting worse. As her story comes to light, we can feel Reki’s frustration. How badly would such a thing stigmatise us? How difficult is it to move past such a terrible moment? Like Guld, Reki must deal with the past. Thankfully she has young Rakka around to save her — if only at the last second.

The want to be saved has to come from within Reki. She must say the words — “help me”. Where Guld wears his posturing on the outside, Reki is more subtle in her egotism. She wants no one’s help, and having lived with that thought for so long, denies that she could ever be a good person. Rakka changes all that.

In Reki’s narrative, the critical moment is when we learn about her name. “Reki means ‘the one who was run over’” — ominous, heart-clenching words. When we see her final moments, we can begin to relate: “have we been this person?”, “would we save this person?”, “are we in fact, this person now?”, and so on. Not in those words of course, but in those feelings. Would we be Reki, or Rakka? Are we crying out to be saved or to save others? It’s easy to brush off the whole matter as something only “emo kids” would do, but that’s a false arrogance. Being in touch with your emotions is no crime, and suffering is a reality. The point of Reki’s story is that you can’t linger on it. Let someone help you.

Of course, the difference between Reki and your typical emo kid is that she doesn’t wear it on the outside. Her pain is personal and she doesn’t draw attention to it. Even at the end she shuts Rakka out. It’s only by virtue of Rakka’s own persistence that Reki allows herself to be saved. This is what separates Reki’s story from the superficial “pain” of a suburbanite teenager and allows the human heart to resonate with its meaning.

I suppose this entire thought was not made to categorise anything, but to study the ways in which emotional moments affect us. Sometimes it’s a long moment — like Suzu’s suffering in Twelve Kingdoms. Often, it’s the apex of a long-standing quest for closure, like in Kimagure’s finale. Then there are characters like Guld and Reki, whose own personal closure may or may not be the sum total of a narrative, but serves to complete their own cycle and put us at peace with them. In all, each kind stabs at us in a kind way, to make us bleed and care even a small amount.

Aeris did not make me cry. Perhaps because of the cinematography, others did cry. Perhaps because they had a would-be saviour disposition towards the waif of a girl. Perhaps because she is a vital story element. Yet as I revisit this point, I will note — it did mean something emotionally. I felt more for Cloud than for Aeris, because in her death comes his life. He is transformed by that moment, from a cynical and hateful individual, into a ponderous, caring man. It is not a moment that makes me cry, but smile for Cloud. That is about the sum total of meaning there.