Chainsaw Man Creator’s Look Back Eschews Gore for an Exploration of Why Art Matters

Over the past decade, manga author Tatsuki Fujimoto’s star has been on the rise. Following his serialized debut with the cult-classic Fire Punch, Fujimoto saw worldwide breakout success with Chainsaw Man. It’s little surprise now, with so many eyes on his work, to see one of his one-shots get a feature-esque adaptation in Look Back.

But even within Fujimoto’s oeuvre, Look Back looks like an anomaly, at least at first glance. Right away, the run-time is surprising; it’s more OVA length than feature film, clocking in at just under an hour. The subject material is also incredibly focused and personal, a contrast to the blockbuster shonen features from the likes of Demon Slayer. Yet this thoughtful, concentrated wallop of moving art will probably stick with me much, much longer than any normal moviegoing experience could.

Look Back follows Ayumu Fujino starting in elementary school, where she has garnered praise for drawing manga that runs in the school’s newspaper. She casually brushes off compliments on her work with an air of nonchalant pride. Fujino exudes Gifted Child energy, through and through; she has natural talent, and is applauded for it.

Then the mood shifts when a truant student, the shut-in Kyomoto, starts publishing her own manga in the newspaper, and it is way ahead of Fujino’s work. Detailed landscapes and drawings make Fujino’s four-panel comedies look like, well, children’s art. When a chance encounter brings the two together, and when Kyomoto yells out “Fujino-sensei,” the reality becomes clear: Kyomoto idolizes Fujino’s work. Fujino had been chasing Kyomoto, while Kyomoto had been feverishly following Fujino.

From here, their artistic lines converge, leading the pair to work together and achieve new heights. It’s a beautiful story, but one that goes on to twist just a bit more. Those familiar with Fujimoto’s work should expect that Look Back is not without a few of his usual tugs at the heart.

In moments of high emotion, Studio Durian—the animation house behind this adaptation—shines. Founder Kiyotaka Oshiyama, who has worked on titles like The Wind Rises and Evangelion: 2.0 You Can (Not) Advance, directed, wrote the script, and provided character designs for Look Back. Maybe it’s because animators, artists, are adapting this work, that they are able to capture the explosive feelings around individual creation. There are moments like Fujino’s revelry, going from a determined walk to a dead-sprint back home after Kyomoto reveals her admiration for Fujino, that simply exude joy and elation. The girls trekking through heavy snow to look at a magazine in a convenience store and see if they’ve won a contest for young manga authors feels like the center-point of the story, both for its place on the timeline and the pure emotions the two share in the celebration that follows.

There are also the scenes of quiet frustration and anguish. Artists hunched over their desks, scribbling at paper, sometimes with dejected anger. As uplifting as it is to feel praised for your work, criticism or even apathy hits back tenfold. When Fujino was younger, she received praise from everyone about how good she was at art for her age; when Kyomoto hits the scene and Fujino tries to better herself, suddenly people are telling her to just drop it.

Image via GKIDS

When Fujino and Kyomoto join forces, the duo are an immediately endearing pairing. Montages take us through moments of their lives, whiling away hours working on their craft while still goofing off, teasing, and diligently working towards a shared goal. It’s enough to make you wonder what all this is for; the praise and pain, the ups and downs of it all.

No, really, Look Back sternly asks: why do you do this? Why spend hours hunched over with a pen and paper? Why endure the pain of criticism, the almost-incommunicable tension between the art you want to create and what your hands are putting on the paper, and the anxiety of opening yourself up so much to let others see?

Fujino’s pride is stand-offish, a “bad look”, and it’s oh-so-recognizable. The push to put up a wall of nonchalance and apathy makes it so much easier to avoid the pain of failure later. Kyomoto, in her own way, pushes Fujino to put her heart into her work. To learn what it means to dedicate yourself to a craft. And Fujino, in kind, breaks Kyomoto out of her shell.

Studio Durian surges in these scenes, beat-by-beat, blending music and gorgeous moments of direction. Fujimoto has a distinct art style, one that feels influenced by movies and natural dialogue as much as shonen titans. Durian does incredible work with the source material provided, pumping even more emotion and care into everything from the pivotal highs to the crushing lows.

Image via GKIDS

Yes, tragedy does ensue. I won’t dig into the specifics, but this is not necessarily a feel-good movie in the traditional sense. Even within a shorter run-time, Look Back is able to tie and untie knots in ways that might just have you wiping tears and reaching for tissues.

Importantly, Look Back begs the question I asked above: why do we create? What spurs creators to keep doing what they do? Can personal growth, even vanity, sustain us? Or do we need a stronger fuel, found in others, to make this happen?

In that way, Look Back finds an interesting answer, but it’s one that reflects a harsh truth we clearly need to learn. The hollows of the internet are overflowing with churned machine art, scraping over centuries of collective invention and iteration just to learn what pixels should sit next to each other. It boils creation down, as if solely the prompt itself has merit, and none of the craft, effort, or time invested carries any meaning.

Look Back asserts its own worth, and the worth of any art born from a human desire to grow and share in the joy of personal creation. There’s no journey without bliss nor strife, but through art, we can process, gain purpose, and share those emotions with others. It’s a beautiful message, and one that makes Look Back a must-watch for anyone who’s ever picked up a pen and sketched a doodle.