ConnexionLeviathan Review
Leviathan is now streaming on Netflix.
With its exceptional storytelling, characters, worldbuilding, and animation, Netflix’s Leviathan has the trappings of a modern classic. In this clever alternate history of World War I – adapted by Studio Orange (Trigun Stampede, Beastars) from a trilogy of novels by Scott Westerfeld – alliances are determined by technology. The Austro-Hungarians and Germans are “Clankers,” relying on machines and other electrical phenomena. On the other side, the “Darwinist” Brits use genetically engineered animals as both weaponry and smaller-scale technology. There’s a genuine inventiveness to these concepts – and the coming of age saga that they surround – that gives all 12 episodes of Leviathan a refreshing air.
To wit: The morning after the Austrian archduke and his wife are assassinated in 1914, their son Aleksandar is whisked away to a safe house in the Swiss Alps. In a mech. Meanwhile, in the U.K., young Deryn Sharp dreams of becoming an aviator (despite it being a male-only profession). She cuts her hair, adopts the first name Dylan, enlists in the British Air Service, and then gets whisked away on a giant flying jellyfish. The Clankers’ steampunk mechs feel period-appropriate, but the Darwinists’ technology is far more enthralling, and Leviathan knows it – after all, it’s named for a whale that serves as an airship. There are smoke-screening birds, bats that drop missiles, and funny little lizards who can record short messages and play them back.
Leviathan’s preference for showing rather than telling is one of its greatest strengths – and one of the ways in which it authentically draws favorable comparisons to Studio Ghibli (and merits the participation of its go-to composer, Joe Hisaishi). Similar to a Ghibli film, some key turns are communicated through facial expressions and other visual cues. This leaves Leviathan open to interpretation, giving it a depth and richness that lingers long after the finale.
The art direction helps amplify this – and the Ghibli-ness, too. In the second episode, Aleksandar and his entourage go to a town that, from the color choices to camera and character blocking, feels right out of Porco Rosso or Kiki’s Delivery Service. It’s impressive that Studio Orange is able to evoke the atmosphere of these hand-drawn classics within a computer-animated series. Sometimes the “slowness” of the CG feels manufactured, or a character can’t quite reach the levels of expressiveness the animators are going for. But given the sheer number of incredibly complex machines in Leviathan, CG is the sensible choice. Every country represented onscreen has its own style of technology, and Studio Orange makes them all look pristine.
All this openness gives Leviathan a critical gray space to move around in, which allows its story and characters to flourish. When the Leviathan crashes in the Alps, Aleksandar – going by the comically weak pseudonym Alek – and crew are forced aboard on a globetrotting journey. “The development of a friendship from opposite sides of a war” and “teens travel the world” are both tried-and-true story structures that settle Leviathan into the cozy, classic feeling of the generations of YA stories that inspired it. Yet the well-formed characters play with those conventions, and give us plenty of reasons to care about them.
Both Alek and Sharp (as most everyone in Leviathan refers to the character) are immediately likable, due in large part to the spirited work of their voice actors, Ayumu Murase and Natsumi Fujiwara. Alek has all the trappings of a sheltered noble without ever seeming too pompous, stuffy, or flat. The growth he demonstrates as he’s thrown into the wider world for the first time is a robust, relatable depiction of a kid emerging from a sheltered upbringing. Sharp, on the other hand, has an infectious eagerness that never lets up.
Their relationship gets an added layer of intrigue because both teens keep their true identities a secret from each other. Leviathan has an opinion on whose secret is the most dangerous, but again, shows us rather than telling us: Whereas Alek risks endangering his life, Sharp risks endangering everything in his life. Leviathan makes us feel the brunt of not only the limitations aligned against women, but how merely identifying someone as “female” changes peoples’ perceptions of them. Leviathan even uses sympathetic characters like Alek to show how widespread these prejudices are. It’s tricky subject matter, but Leviathan handles it with remarkable deftness and care.
Another sign of that care is how Sharp is treated as far more than some archetypal cross-dressing woman. Once the truth is out, Leviathan doesn’t pigeonhole Sharp’s queerness and gender identity. Where Sharp lies on the artificial spectrum between “Deryn” and “Dylan” is not only left to interpretation, but beyond the point. The complexities of how Leviathan portrays this are vast, and more than a review can do justice to. But this much can be definitively said: It’s wonderful that Sharp is allowed to be Sharp.
Once more, Leviathan’s commitment to showing instead of telling pays off. When presented with the choice of three gowns to wear to a gala event in a later episode, a panicked Sharp runs from the room. Cut to: A hotel lobby, where a dashing Sharp makes a grand entrance in a suit and tie – a marvelous affirmation of Sharp’s character that cleverly reworks the type of traditional glamour shot another series might’ve gone with. Leviathan’s deeply refreshing stance is that it does not matter if Sharp – or any character – is male or female or somewhere in between. Any person can have any characteristic. A good character is a good character.
Providing some of the accompaniment to these dynamic characters bursting with feelings: Joe Hisaishi, a master of sentimental musical themes. Both of Hisaishi’s contributions to Leviathan are soaring, emotional, and beautiful. The main theme, “Paths Combine,” initially appears as a solo piano arrangement during the opening, but slowly seeps into the rest of the show. By the time you finally hear the lyrics, your heart’s ready to melt – another reward of Leviathan’s willingness to slowly, deliberately grow its characters. The full instrumental score, meanwhile, was composed by the Suzume duo of Nobuko Toda and Kazuma Jinnouchi, who more than live up to Hisaishi’s example.
All that globetrotting means that Leviathan’s story is briskly paced. As much as it allows for space, the series also crams three books into twelve episodes. You’d expect such breakneck speed to stunt the characters’ growth, but it doesn’t. Even though there are occasionally odd cuts or scenes I wish would stick around longer, the pacing somehow works. Each 25-ish-minute episode feels like it contains 40 minutes’ worth of story and passes by in the blink of an eye.
