Back when I was ploughing through Berserk I recall noticing a tension between the experience of dense and ambitious thematic explorations and the chapter-by-chapter lust for bloody kicks. It’s the former which elevates the series, and bluntly, which distinguishes it from the likes of Claymore in the minds of most Miura fans.
What Claymore has always offered is bugger all in the way of high ambition, and a less gruesome but more thrilling chapter-by-chapter style. Full of abrupt twists and its own dynamic obsession with the latest short-term focus. As though the toning down of the violence somehow necessitated a reduction of weighty elements in favour of the immediate. Which is clearly all to do with the target audience. It has the virtues of a boys-own sword-slinging tale. Only with a female cast.
It’s by using this assessment of the strengths of Claymore that I consider the current direction of the series to be so very very pleasing. And when I say direction, you should read miniskirts.
Now, in reality, this was not a miniskirt heavy chapter. Nor was this a chapter blessed by the presence of personal-fave Miria’s magnificently inappropriate garb-du-jour. When I say miniskirts I refer simply to those virtues of the manga which I feel are best represented by the decision to dress up deadly warriors of vengeance like the S&M division of special ops.
Claymore is now firmly miniskirted. In adopting a new line in skimpy costumes for its (ever more dominant) sub-cast it has finally mastered the great crisis of keeping things fun outside the moments of importance. All series must do this, but it’s something that’s pretty hard for battler shows.
Back in the days of Ophelia Claymore used to pull the trick of constantly one-upping itself to keep ticking over. Right now it has chosen to keep things relatively stable, and occupy our minds with less brutish lines of plot. So, with chapter 85 there is a minor and dull fight, some character building, some conspiratorial chat. This would have been a recipe for dullness back when it was the travels of kid Raki and the silent archetype. Nowadays this relative inaction is wonderful.
In reading Skirtmore I feel no sense of unease or inertia as the plot arcs get warmed up. In fact I find myself sneering at the crudity of the current line in dramatic twists, and instead revelling in the general presence of the cast. In the sexually inactive but oh-so-sexy collective. How could I fail to do so when things are based around showing off such brilliant subcharacters.
Helen smiles like a serpentine villain. Sat next to the angelic Deneve she’s at once a genuine goodguy and a hilariously mean anti-hero – playing at being nastier than she is. It’s not the first time a manga like this has triumphed in offering us superficial but wonderful characters with funky special moves and cool banter. But frankly, I’m a sucker for that shit. Always will be.
Claymore is currently very shonen indeed and this is something I like a lot. It is not currently open to the accusation of Berserk-lite, because it is oh so comfortable and oh so effective in the good old territory of pure friendship and team spirit. It is making the most of the unique pleasures associated with its demographic. Because a cast show-off like this is somehow more innocent and more charming in shonen land.
Maybe early Claymore (i.e. the worst bits) would have been better with real horror, but this current mood suits the slick and gore-lite action. No flying eyeballs, just a quick dissection and a few backflips before tea.
The obvious highlight of chapter 85 was the succession of pages which saw Helen and Deneve casually chatting on the margins of a battle to the death, jumping on in late to save the day, and then taking a synchronised shot at knocking-out the girl they’d rescued. Helen’s legendary bendy-arm and Deneve’s ridiculously athletic pose lending the panel a disney-esque wit.
You can but imagine my glee. Not only do we get that rare and delicious Claymore-style deadpan humour, we even get a near slapstick induction for a new (strong, smart, blonde) character. This sequence was the core of an chapter which began with nefarious Rubel and ended with classic monster-slaying. These conventional bookends meant that this never felt like anything but a slice of Claymore, it’s just that the meat of the affair had all the grinning pizzaz of the most unashamed of shonen funfests.
And yet, still, what helps so much in Claymore is the knowledge that character building comes before a fall. That the more awesome Helen gets, the more certain her doom becomes. That even Deneve can hardly be said to have a bright future. Unlike many of its rivals it actually does have that martial sense of strong bonds in a situation of crisis – where each moment of closeness feels valuable and rare. It’s where Claymore offers something better than the standard fare, where it’s pseudo-maturity convinces.
In its use of elements of horror and rural dystopia Claymore has very rarely worked as a classic journey. It has not be designed according to long and involving storytelling or progression beyond the latest menace. It just doesn’t offer so many of the things that should be there to pull us closer to the cast, it doesn’t take us on that beautiful journey. The cast are pulled closer by death, no time is wasted on exposition. But that doesn’t mean that these rare moments of disposability aren’t glorious. I happen to think they’re one of the best things in Claymore.
Aside from Clare’s mania, there’s little in the way of complex motivation or of exploration in the world which goes beyond shocking disclosures. Its cast are appealing in moments of repose, but not exactly deep. We do not follow their training or development, we just enjoy the fruits. Claymore is fatalistically involving in a way other shonen generally aren’t, and yet it still finds space for a devilish grin.
Every now and then, even if there’s little feeling of truly journeying with our team, there’s the feeling of fun-with-the-gang which characterises travels in shonen. Fun which is disjointed from structure and development of themes. Claymore has its laughs in a miniskirt, waving a pair of XXL broadswords, wisecracking cynically, grinning madly. The kind of regressive but undeniable fun a demobilised professional killer grabs in a brief stint of inaction. Skirts with sharp edges, slice of skirt, Skirtmore.
