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There are anime that entertain, anime that inspire, and then there are anime that linger like a strange dream you cannot quite explain. Wicked City belongs to the last category. Released in 1987 and directed by Yoshiaki Kawajiri, this dark fantasy thriller feels like a relic from an era when anime creators were willing to be unapologetically bold. Watching it in 2026 is almost like opening a time capsule from Japan's creative explosion of the late eighties, a period where cyberpunk, horror, noir, and mature storytelling collided with breathtaking hand-drawn animation. It is not a perfect film, nor does it try to be. Instead, it embraces its own madness and transforms it into an unforgettable audiovisual experience that still feels surprisingly fresh nearly four decades later.
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At its core, Wicked City tells the story of Taki, an agent assigned to protect the fragile peace treaty between humanity and the Black World, a parallel dimension inhabited by supernatural beings known as the Makai. On paper, it sounds like a straightforward supernatural action film, but the narrative quickly becomes something stranger. The plot often feels secondary to the atmosphere, as if Kawajiri cared less about explaining every detail than about immersing the viewer in an unsettling urban nightmare. The city itself becomes a character: empty streets soaked in rain, anonymous office buildings hiding impossible creatures, crimson lights cutting through darkness, and an overwhelming sense that reality is only a thin curtain separating civilization from chaos. That dreamlike ambiguity is precisely what gives the film its identity.
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Visually, Wicked City remains extraordinary. Even after decades of technological advances and the arrival of digital animation, its hand-painted backgrounds, dramatic lighting, and meticulous compositions continue to command attention. Every frame carries the confidence of artists who understood that animation is not merely movement but cinematography. Deep blues, harsh blacks, glowing reds, and occasional bursts of neon create a palette that feels simultaneously elegant and threatening. Kawajiri's direction borrows heavily from classic noir while injecting an unmistakable anime identity, resulting in a visual language that would later echo through works like Ninja Scroll, Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust, and even certain aspects of Ghost in the Shell. It is impossible not to admire the sheer craftsmanship behind every sequence, especially considering the limitations of traditional cel animation in the late 1980s.
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One of the film's defining characteristics is its body horror. Unlike conventional monster movies that rely solely on grotesque imagery, Wicked City uses transformation as a metaphor for fear, desire, and hidden identity. The Makai are disturbing not because they are violent, but because they constantly blur the line between attraction and revulsion. Human forms dissolve into monstrous anatomy without warning, ordinary objects become living organisms, and beauty often conceals something profoundly alien beneath the surface. Even today, these moments remain genuinely unsettling because they tap into psychological discomfort rather than simple shock value. The horror emerges from uncertainty—from never knowing whether the person standing beside you is truly human or something wearing humanity as a disguise. That lingering paranoia gives the film a tension that modern horror anime rarely replicates.
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Of course, Wicked City is unmistakably an adult anime. It explores sexuality, violence, temptation, and corruption without apology, reflecting the creative freedom of the OVA boom that defined much of Japan's animation industry during the 1980s. Some aspects undoubtedly reveal their age, and contemporary audiences may find certain scenes excessive or uncomfortable through today's cultural lens. Yet reducing the film to those moments would miss the bigger picture. Its mature content is woven into a broader meditation on desire, loneliness, sacrifice, and coexistence between worlds that fear one another. Beneath the violence and supernatural spectacle lies a surprisingly melancholic story about individuals trapped between duty and humanity, forced to navigate moral gray areas where easy answers simply do not exist.
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Watching Wicked City today is also an opportunity to appreciate how fearless anime once was. Long before streaming algorithms, franchise formulas, and seasonal production schedules encouraged safer creative decisions, films like this embraced artistic risk without worrying about universal appeal. That willingness to disturb, confuse, and challenge the audience is part of what has allowed Wicked City to endure. It may never become mainstream, and perhaps it was never meant to. Instead, it survives as a cult classic that rewards viewers willing to surrender to its hypnotic atmosphere rather than demand straightforward explanations. Nearly forty years after its release, it still stands as a reminder that animation can be beautiful, unsettling, sophisticated, and deeply cinematic all at once. Wicked City is not simply a horror anime; it is a dark visual poem whose shadows continue to fascinate anyone willing to step inside them.
