Wesley Fenlon | Not with a bang but a whimper.

Metropolis is a true work of art inspired by and dedicated to Osamu Tezuka, who was instrumental in the formation and development of both anime and manga over the past half century. Though it was completed several years after his death, Metropolis is, in essence, the culmination of Tezuka’s lifetime of work: it builds on elements from his original Metropolis manga but significantly alters the plot to mirror Fritz Lang’s film, and addresses a swath of issues that show up across the body of his creations. Strife appears within the rigid caste system, within family, and between people and their mechanical creations.  Can the spirit of love conquer all? And, ultimately: what does it mean to be human?

The vast urban sprawl of Metropolis is meticulously and beautifully animated, and the characters are pure Tezuka: simplistic and exaggerated, instantly distinct, and especially expressive for their cartoony manifestation. The most impressive scenes bustle with traditional animation and hundreds of characters. The computer-generated imagery hasn’t aged as well, but by and large it blends well enough into the picture. The music is also a delight, and the jazzy soundtrack perfectly meshes with the film’s art deco style that is simultaneously futuristic and old-fashioned.

As an homage, Metropolis is an incredible feat. But as a movie, if Metropolis has any real failing, it’s that the film simply tries to do too much. Atlas’ struggle to overthrow the upper class becomes little more than a bridge between Kenichi and Tima’s time on the run and their capture by Duke Red, and Tima’s turn to Armageddon and subsequent redemption feels rushed and confused in the film’s final moments. The plot isn’t my favorite, but Metropolis is one of the few films in which I feel like plot is a secondary concern to the spirit of the adventure, as Kenichi and Tima’s blossoming friendship is just a tiny part of a vast world that’s realized in a manner rarely matched in cinema.

And even if the wealth of characters were to be stripped away — even if the soul of the movie, realized in so many wonderful characters who each give us a tiny glimpse into some aspect of humanity, be it greed, nobility, sorrow or love — even then, I’d still love Metropolis for finding that sublime union of the visual and the aural. As the Ziggurat falls, bringing an end to the greatness and prestige of Metropolis, it is not the sound of a deafening explosion we hear. It’s not the crash of debris, the buckling of steel, or the breaking of glass.

It’s the blues. A little bit happy, full of soul and tinged with sadness, Ray Charles brings an intimate quality to Metropolis‘ final moments that’s simply, purely human.  For that, it is unmatched.