Beastars is published by Akita Shoten/VIZMedia. Please support the official release.

IMPORTANT NOTE: This piece is based on the Spanish translation of the first three volumes of Beastars edited by Panini Mexico. The Spanish publishing press Milky Way Ediciones recently released the seventh volume, while VIZ Media debuted the first volume in English this month.

Update 05/18/2020: The VIZ Media English edition has already covered the chapters discussed in this essay, so I updated the sections with vague wording, making it clear what characters I’m referring to. I also reworded/cleaned some awkward phrasing and punctuation.

On a separate note, thank you for taking the time to read my rambly words about this wonderful manga. This piece has been doing great numbers since the anime premiered on Netflix at the beginning of this year. During this time I have read the manga all the way to volume 11, and I’m happy to inform the story keeps getting increasingly crazier and weirder. I’m working hard on new essays that will discuss the many themes and wild characters introduced in later arcs of the story. I hope you can join me on this strange and furry journey. Also, I’m really grateful for all your thoughtful comments and I promise I’ll get back to you soon!

SPOILER WARNING: I tried to be as vague as possible, but the piece mentions and alludes to scenes and characters from volumes two and three.

As a member of the male side(s) of humanity, I’ve always had a particular interest in the idea of masculinity. I guess a more accurate word would be “obsession” due to my own feelings of inadequacy after growing up in Mexico’s hypermasculine society; one with its own historical and cultural complexities that share some similarities, and considerable differences, with American masculinity. I was an overweight socially awkward boy victim of bullying, and it took me a solid fifteen years and half-a-decade of therapy to understand that my childhood and teenage experiences led me to develop severe anxiety and a crippling fear of intimacy.

Stories that deal with this particular kind of trauma abound in all kinds of coming-of-age media, but explorations of the mechanisms and psychological effects of this internal conflict are, in many cases, simplified or caricaturized through male tropes and questionable stereotypes of manhood. Sometimes you have stories centered on reserved sensitive boys slowly consumed by their sexual desires (the works of Shūzō Oshimi), or messed up psychosexual tragedies where children and teenagers use their sexuality as a survival mechanism to deal with trauma and an uncaring society (a recurrent thematic through-line in the works of Inio Asano, an author I have complicated feelings for). Although I respect the attempts by these authors to portray nuanced representations of male desire and identity, I feel that in many cases there’s something in their writing that makes it difficult for me to empathize or identify with these sorts of characters. Perhaps it has to do with the tendency of seinen manga to portray men/boys at the fringes of society in spectacular and sordid situations, where they either become monstrous (especially towards the female characters) or fall under the pressure of a male-dominated society. It almost seems as if cis heterosexual (and sometimes bisexual) experiences in current manga can only operate under the false dichotomy of a stunted hypocritical Nice Guy® or the damaged sensitive boy trope, which ends up transforming into a sexist hateful man. In other words, these characters sometimes feel alien because they’re either too passive or too destructive. They are vessels for their authors to explore damaged experiences of boyhood, rather than actual layered characters. That said, more nuanced approaches to teenage sexuality exist, not in the confines of a shoujo magazine or a realistic edgy seinen (mind you), but in a manga starring anthropomorphic animals published in a magazine aimed at men and written and illustrated by a woman (who preserves her public anonymity by wearing a chicken mask). I’m, of course, talking about the multi-award winning and best-selling shonen manga titled Beastars.

Known in some corners of the Internet as the “adult Zootopia,” Beastars does share a similar premise to Disney’s box office hit: both stories portray a society where herbivores and carnivores coexist, and both works center on the relationship between a male member of the Canidae family (a fox and a grey wolf, respectively) and a female bunny. That said, the parallels pretty much end there (to answer the question of which came first: Zootopia was released five months before the manga, but Disney started pre-production way back in 2013; while Paru Itagaki thought of this world and characters since her college years). In the charming first sequence of Zootopia, Judy Hopps retells the story of her world as a sort-of long forgotten myth, implying that this society has existed for thousands of years, and although prejudices between groups still exist; the era where animals ate each other is long gone. The first pages of Beastars, on the other hand, pull no punches: the story opens with the mysterious murder of an alpaca by an unseen carnivore in the Cherrytown school, an elite private academy where carnivores and herbivores live and study together. The eponymous Beastar is the title that many students in Cherrytown seek: to be chosen as a charismatic and influential leader capable of fostering harmony between all kinds of animal groups and species. If Zootopia portrays, like its title, a zoological “utopia” (GET IT), then Paru Itagaki created a fledgling world where interspecies contact is still rare and seemingly at the brink of complete collapse.

The above description and the fact that the manga opens with a mysterious murder might give the impression that Beastars is a gritty noir. Truth is, Itagaki has crafted a high school drama and a coming-of-age character study wrapped in thick layers of social commentary. Perhaps the murder will be solved in the climax of the story (UPDATE: yeah, it does), but throughout the first three volumes the murder dissolves in the background focusing, instead, in some brilliant character writing that carefully develops the experiences of the main characters and their struggles navigating a society filled with conflict and tension. I mentioned elsewhere that using animals to metaphorize human relations is tricky, to say the least. Like the excellent Wisecrack’s video analysis of Zootopia points out, Disney’s film works as an exploration of social prejudice, but the moment we delve into the implications of its biological premise (a society ignoring the natural hierarchies between hunter and pray) the film turns into a symbolic mess. The beautiful thing about Itagaki’s manga is the fact that she addresses, in a blunt way, the terrifying implications of a world where carnivores have to keep their natural instincts in check in order to live peacefully within a non-violent social order. Itagaki manages this by keeping things grounded in character drama and coalescing the themes of interspecies conflict into a nuanced and deeply complex psychosexual tale. The vessel for these intriguing questions is the fascinating main character, the grey wolf Legoshi.

The easiest way of describing the appeal of Beastars is not through its plotting, tone or worldbuilding (all excellent, by the way), but its protagonist. Legoshi is introduced as a character representing the fundamental contradictions of a place like Cherrytown, in essence a microcosm of the larger Beastars world. He’s a sensitive caring soul trapped in a body belonging to the upper ladders of the natural order, an enormous terrifying presence trapping a heart of gold, and an inner desire to escape the social conditions that force him into a predetermined social order. Other carnivores in the story mock or show open contempt towards Legoshi’s gentle soul and refusal to internalize the biological desire for flesh and blood, while herbivores like Louis (a charismatic deer considered to be the top candidate for the next Beastar title) resent Legoshi for suppressing the natural advantages of his physical superiority. Initially, Legoshi is portrayed as an awkward introvert trying to come to terms with his emotions and identity, but these small positive steps go south rather quick after he succumbs to his carnivore instincts and almost eats Haru, a small female bunny and Cherrytown’s social outcast that Legoshi describes as the literal “devil.” The encounter awakens something dark within Legoshi and the taboo friendship that develops between wolf and bunny slowly takes Legoshi into an existential crisis and a rapid descent towards a psychosexual self-destructive journey.

Returning to that annoying comparison with Zootopia, the story of the bunny cop made millions of dollars because it’s a familiar story with market potential and efficient focus group-tested storytelling. In comparison, Beastars is the complete reversal of this. Paru Itagaki writes a deeply personal story with messy metaphors and raw emotions. The plot is at times shocking and morbid, but the cartoonish humor and sketch-like quality of the art balances the dark underbelly of the story. Coupled with moments of intense tension you have strange ridiculous interludes like a short vignette of a chicken that sells her unhatched eggs as a part-time job (the fetishistic twist is that she’s aware that Legoshi is, unbeknownst to him, her best client). In terms of thematic cohesion and tone, I would say that Beastars has more in common with Julia Ducournau’s 2016 masterclass film Raw, centered in the unsettling relationship of two cannibal sisters. Both stories explore moments where latent primal instincts clash against the social order, as well as establishing a direct thematic link between biological instinct and sexual awakening (albeit with different gender lenses). Symbolism and metaphor used in this manner allow many different readings and interpretations. In my case, the conflict of Legosi’s character hit me quite hard and in such a personal way that the act of reading Beastars is, at times, a painful experience. To give some context, I’ll describe briefly the payoff of the first story arc (which I refer to as the “Adler Play” arc) and how it sets the central conflict moving forward.

Volume two introduces Bill, a macho and extroverted Bengal tiger who becomes Legoshi’s antagonist during this early section. The conflict between them begins because they exist as mirror-opposites of one another despite belonging to the same carnivore class. Bill takes enormous pride in his carnivore status and eventually reveals his belief that animals can only coexist in peace when carnivores are allowed to eat other herbivore meat, meaning that in order for the status quo to persist it’s necessary for an animal society to tolerate (even through illegal means) the primal instincts of carnivores. This belief triggers an ideological flight within Legoshi who believes there has to be “something more” to carnivores than just an unavoidable crave for blood.

The portrayal of this quarrel is some shocking stuff for a manga aimed at teenagers, but Itagaki takes it a step further when Legoshi shamefully admits the carnivore instinct exists inside him, lusting for Haru. The moment that made all of this click in my head happens a few scenes earlier in volume two when Legoshi goes into an excursion outside Cherrytown with other carnivores from the theater club. In one scene, Bill discusses his sexual escapades and badmouths women he’s dating. Legoshi is so visibly upset and uncomfortable listening to the gossip that Bill begins to bully him, pointing out that Legoshi reeks of “virgin smell.” As a guy, I’ve been in this same position many times when I was a teen. Because I tended to avoid hanging out with large groups of boys (and having no brothers to compare my experience with) it was always shocking how men refined this performance of hypermasculinity in front of other men. Like Legoshi, it was easy for me to present a morally righteous identity (“I’m not like those shitty dudes. I’m the exception to the rule. Not all men.”) while remaining in complete denial of my own internalized desire for intimacy and insecurity when measuring myself to other forms of “masculinity” (“I hate them, but I want to secretly be like them”). This push-and-pull of desire and identity is a sure recipe for a destructive cycle of self-hatred. By the end of the volume, Legoshi has to face head-on the fact that his own obsession with Haru teeters down on the precipice of perversion. Clearly Itagaki sides with Legoshi’s feelings, but she’s careful to show the pitfalls and nuances of two extremes.

The Canidae Gang. Look at them. Look at those dorks.

Patriarchy is such an insidious system that normative gender roles cannibalize themselves until nothing is left. Just like is questionable to claim that carnivores cannot overcome their instincts in this fantasy society, we can also criticize the claim that men are biologically predetermined to oppress women. To think of sexual instinct not as a choice, but as a biological demand (a “right”) maintaining male identity. Other characters present Legoshi’s crisis as two separate paths: he can either succumb to carnivore instinct and consume Haru or keep the desire contained by ending their friendship. Similar manga might romanticize Legoshi’s position, but Itagaki is smart enough to point out the inherent naïveté of individualism. Men conflicted about their own masculinity can be easily brainwashed into these extremes, where it seems there is no other choice but to transform into a “real man” by hurting women. In contrast, many men also make the mistake of seeing themselves as exceptional and not as parts of a larger system of control that we reproduce, whether we want it or not. We can pretend to be better “men” (“carnivores”), or allies, or exceptional pro-women individuals, but this idea obscures the reality that men still hold immense power over women. Beastars presents in a frank and honest way that the personal journey to rewire your identity is incredibly difficult.

At its core, and as I pointed out earlier, Beastars is a coming-of-age tale. From here on, Legoshi’s journey will be determined by his internal struggle and I’m excited to see such a fun character grow, make mistakes, and maybe become a better person (it’s safe to assume that at some point he might start seeing himself as a potential Beastar). As I gained experience and confidence, after making many romantic mistakes and overcoming my fear of intimacy and social relations, I slowly learned to understand that it is not enough to believe you’re “good,” but realize that we are born in a society not of our own making. In order to live a healthy and meaningful life we need to accept that we are complicit with the status quo and that degree of self-awareness is untapped potential for future change. The reason why Beastars is such a harrowing experience for me is because I see my old self in Legoshi and it’s always a painful process to go back and relieve your personal mistakes and emotional immaturity. Thinking that you’re capable of transcending your circumstances is a tricky act of self-denial that lets you ignore the degree of influence that society has over our ways of thinking. With thirteen volumes and over a hundred chapters, I really hope Itagaki builds and expands on these topics in an organic fashion. The brilliant thing about Beastars is that you can come to very different readings when you consider or discuss the rest of the cast. So far, my subjective reading works well because the first three volumes are dominated by an obvious male perspective. As the cast expands and the main characters fall into a love quadrangle, it’ll be interesting to see how these themes are explored through a female lens. Indeed, the weakest part of the manga is the fact that, so far, the female characters are still underwritten (checking some bits and pieces of fan translations I can say this improves a lot as the story begins to focus on Haru and other female characters).

I want to make clear there’s not a shortage of manga dealing with the same topics as Beastars. Recent titles, such as O Maidens in Your Savage Season, explore teenage sexuality with similar frankness, but Itagaki’s work has the advantage of working with a unique and strange premise. Stories about teenage sexuality sometimes focus too much on the comedy cringe factor of “look how awkward and shitty sex is.” Beastars, instead, portrays growing pains as a violent and terrifying experience that ravages your idea of the self and leaves you with trauma and emotional scars (or in the case of Legoshi, literal scars as he gains more and more physical wounds as the story progresses). Many will joke that the title is almost ready-made for a furry cult following, but we have to wait and see if the anime adaptation can translate the unique qualities of the manga to a more mainstream audience. Beastars is an accesible read, truly addicting, and exciting like few other current manga. And yet, at its darkest and most complex I can surely confirm it’s not mere escapism. It shows in brutal and grotesque fashion that sexuality and identity are deeply tied with cruel and oppressive social systems. Just like the feeling of growing into a functional adult, Beastars is filled with pain and messy emotions regarding our place in society.

Some scattered notes I left out of this post because it’s already too damn long