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Content Warning: This section discusses illness and death, suicidal ideation, child abuse, child death, and bullying.
The first major theme is Memory and Authenticity in an Age of Curated Content. Everything from the characters and the plot, the symbolism of Yuta’s camera, and the visual layout of the manga itself all contribute to this theme in some way. The story of the manga takes place in a contemporary context, which includes the internet and social media. This suggests that memory itself is becoming increasingly tied to the digital tools used to capture and revise it. Though the characters never explicitly mention the internet or social media, Yuta’s smartphone and his computer are physical reminders of the existence of the internet and its impact on people’s lives, especially students like Yuta. These physical reminders underscore a connection between Yuta’s videos of his mother, recorded on his smartphone, and downloaded to his computer for editing, to the heavy curation prevalent in social media. Moreover, the visuals of the manga, such as the shaky/blurred line art and the camera’s perspective, contribute to the sense that everything is curated and edited by Yuta for the express purpose of obfuscating reality and authenticity and crafting a carefully controlled story. This creates a haunting visual metaphor for the instability of memory and the erasure of painful truths.
The plot centers on Yuta’s attempts to make movies, first about his mother and then about Eri, endeavors that likewise highlight the way he curates his video content and interweaves fact and fiction to conceal the reality of his mother’s emotional abuse and distance himself from his grief and pain. The manga thus demonstrates the way careful curation of content can hide the truth. And yet, crucially, his many efforts to avoid reality still reveal aspects of his authentic self. This is especially true in the case of the explosion he edits at the end of his movie. Though his classmates do not understand its meaning, Eri understands the grief, anger, and defiance the explosion represents. The image becomes a visual shorthand for emotional overwhelm—too big to be explained with words, yet instantly understood by someone who recognizes the pain behind it.
Like Yuta’s movies, the metafictional aspects of the manga create a blurred boundary between fact and fiction, reality and fantasy. The manga actively resists efforts to delineate between what is real and what is Yuta’s fictionalized version. For example, the narrative does not reveal the true extent of Yuta’s mother’s abusive behavior until over halfway through the manga, demonstrating the way Yuta’s story has hidden the truth from the reader as well as his classmates. He has actively controlled the version of his mother that exists in the movie and explicitly states that he wanted to craft a beautiful memory of her for his own needs. This narrative choice not only reinforces the central tension between truth and performance but implicates the reader in the act of misremembering, asking readers to reflect on the stories we construct about others.
This is not the only discussion of the way memory can be manipulated, even altered. Eri and Yuta’s mother both know this as well, which is why they each ask Yuta to record them. Yuta’s mother wants to create a version of herself as a brave survivor of illness. Likewise, Eri wishes for Yuta to craft a curated and idealized version of her life and death. While Yuta’s mother seems primarily motivated by self-aggrandizement, however, Eri’s motivations are similar to Yuta’s own. They each use these movies, and the storytelling inherent within them, to cope with their fear, vulnerability, and grief, ultimately tying this theme to Storytelling as a Coping Mechanism. In this way, curated memory becomes a shared language of survival—a method by which characters rewrite their narratives into something livable.
The final scene of the manga reinforces this in several ways. First, it is the best example of the metafictional aspects of the narrative. This scene pulls the fantastical story of a vampire girl out of Yuta’s movie and into the real world while simultaneously calling into question the reality of everything Yuta experiences here by concluding with another explosion. Additionally, Eri the vampire claims that his movie about her not only preserves her memory but can now create it as well. If Eri is in fact a vampire, then the beautiful, idealized version of Eri Yuta crafted in his movie will now become the real, authentic version, bringing the cycle of memory, curation, and authenticity full circle.
The second major theme, Storytelling as a Coping Mechanism, is deeply entwined with the first theme, in that the stories Yuta, and to an extent Eri, use arise primarily out of Yuta’s video content and filmmaking efforts. Yuta’s videos, recorded on his camera phone, are not stories in and of themselves, but they are the pieces Yuta uses to craft his stories. Additionally, as he and Eri watch movies together, Yuta uses the stories he watches as well as those he creates as part of his coping behaviors. The movies he watches, as a form of storytelling, become symbols of his engagement with his life and feelings. This is especially apparent in the final scene when he attempts to make sense of Eri’s fantastical appearance by comparing the encounter to different movies, including Permanent Nobara, Brown Bunny, and The Sixth Sense. These comparisons not only illustrate how deeply cinema is embedded in Yuta’s worldview but also highlight how fiction becomes the lens through which he makes meaning.
However, Yuta’s primary coping mechanisms are the stories he tells with his movies about his mother and Eri. By curating his videos, editing, and crafting fictional elements, he manages his experiences and feelings, thus lending further meaning to otherwise random and meaningless moments in life. At the same time, by turning his life into a story, rather than simply reality, he can distance himself from his pain, grief, and vulnerability. This is why, as he explicitly states near the conclusion, he can only face his problems through the lens of a camera. For instance, by fictionalizing his mother and creating a beautiful story out of pieces of her memory, he can both hide from and process his mother’s cruelty. The motif of “a pinch of fantasy” (83) likewise assists with his efforts to divorce himself from his problems. Yuta’s impulse to add a touch of fantasy to everything he creates, such as the explosions and the vampire girl storyline, helps him fictionalize aspects of his life and process his experiences from an outside perspective, like someone watching and analyzing a movie. These touches of fantasy allow Yuta to create safe psychological distance, transforming trauma into art.
Both Eri and Yuta’s father understand the power and significance of storytelling, not only in Yuta’s life but for people as a whole. Eri recognizes Yuta’s attempts to control his own story and craft a version of his mother’s death that will impact others, which is why she decides to teach him how to analyze films for their storytelling components and techniques. Only then will he be able to craft a story that effectively impacts his classmates while also controlling content and memory as he wishes. Likewise, Yuta’s father sees the power storytelling, and creativity in general, can have on both the audience and the creator. Through Yuta’s father, the manga ties together the first and second themes and argues that creative expression (in this case Yuta’s stories) is intended to have a particular emotional impact on the audience. For this to work, however, that creativity cannot be merely manipulative but also authentic. If a creative work reveals the creator’s pain, it will reveal the audience’s as well. This is a key distinction in the manga: Storytelling is not just for hiding pain, but for sharing it in a way that invites empathy and connection.
As with the first theme, the final scene of the manga reinforces this second theme as well. Memory and storytelling become further entwined and linked as Yuta’s fictional story about Eri becomes, at least momentarily, true. To complicate this further, the explosion on the final page then suggests that the entire scene is just enough piece of Yuta’s movie. Yet, this only heightens the power of storytelling as a coping mechanism because he has once again returned to his fictionalized, and thus immortal, version of Eri so that he can properly say goodbye. The ending thus implies that Yuta is using a story to process his grief and loss one more time, which then allows him to leave the past (in the form of an explosion) behind him and finally move forward in life. This act of storytelling becomes a ritual of release and an emotional catharsis that grants Yuta the closure he could never find in real life.
Friendship and camaraderie can arise out of any number of things, however, the relationship between Yuta and Eri stems almost entirely from their shared love of movies. Crucially, Eri instigates this friendship, not only because she stops Yuta from dying by suicide, but because she is the only person who appreciates and understands what Yuta was trying to do in his movie, “Dead Explosion Mother.” She is the first person to see beneath the fantasy story he has crafted to the authentic person beneath. From then on, Yuta and Eri spend every free moment together watching and analyzing movies, cementing their bonds in the process. The manga does not belabor this point. Instead, it portrays the slow but steady growth of their relationship through a sequence of montage-like panels and a small handful of conversations that demonstrate their camaraderie and teasing. Their intimacy emerges organically, almost silently, through the repetition of shared rituals—screenings, critiques, and quiet moments in the projection room.
Their interactions reveal things about the way they relate to each other and themselves, each moment mediated through their shared passion for viewing and making movies. This is true not only when Eri’s comment about empathizing with a heroine’s death foreshadows her impending death, but also in more subtle ways. For instance, in one scene when Eri is in the hospital, dialogue bubbles appear over the image of an IV bag as Eri asks if they filmed any kissing scenes. She is referring to scenes in their movie, which portray a fictional relationship between the protagonist and the vampire girl. She then suggests they film “one more just to be safe” (146). This moment is on one level about moviemaking, but another level suggests a romantic element to their relationship. And yet, when Yuta shows his new movie at the school following Eri’s death, he insists that they never dated in real life. Only the characters in the movie were in love. This distinction between fiction and reality mirrors the broader thematic tension of the work—how imagined stories often feel more emotionally legible than life itself. Additionally, the making of the movie itself reveals something about their relationship. Specifically, despite, or perhaps because of their friendship, Eri repeats Yuta’s mother’s self-centered cruelty by asking Yuta to film her death. However, the depth of their friendship inspires Yuta to agree, as he could not for his mother. In doing so, he crafts a version of his friend that will live forever.
Eri’s significance in Yuta’s life carries throughout the final section of the manga, long after her death. For years, he continues to cut and recut Eri’s movie, always unsatisfied with the outcome and certain that something is missing, though he does not know what. Crucially, both times Yuta contemplates suicide, he is motivated by pain and loss. And both times, it is Eri’s support and encouragement that convince him to try again instead. Yuta’s friendship with Eri connects to Storytelling as a Coping Mechanism. Yuta must once again process his grief through a story he tells himself, imagining that Eri is truly a vampire and therefore cannot die. In the context of this story, Eri reminds him that she (and by extension his other loved ones) is immortal within his movies and his memories. Thus, Eri’s friendship continues to save him even after death. It is a friendship sustained by the creative act of remembering—a testament to how shared passions can echo long after the people they are shared with are gone.



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