Towards the end of 2016 it seemed as if a new wave threatened to drag in every single fan of the medium through an irresistible pull, elevating fandom as this collective whole into the celestial reaches above. Immediately proving to be a black swan of a work that soared through cotton candy clouds, I was eager to chase after Your Name’s bucolic afterimage. Based on its glistening reputation, each day seemingly bringing another award and smashed record, I was certain that I would come to love it – so profoundly affected by the film’s existence that I would find myself eagerly recommending it for years to come, wallpapers portraying pastoral mise-en-scène a permanent fixture.

Missing local showings proved to be quietly devastating, worsened as friends professed their starry-eyed adoration for Shinkai Makoto’s latest at every possible opportunity; effervescent plumes of Shinkaian clouds cushioning, red string wrapped tight. I am an absolute sucker for wistful tales about doomed lovers who never quiiiiite end up meeting, all longing romanticism characterized by Romeo’s “I defy you, stars!” speech, serving as a damning condemnation of powers that be preventing fated unions. Just as everyone else in the world fell for Your Name, I was certain I would feel similarly, just as I had upon witnessing 5 Centimetres per Second did all those years back leaving your emotional webmistress a sobbing wreck as ‘One More Time, One More Chance’ boomed across her monitor’s expanse.

As the physical released crept ever-closer it was safe to say that Your Name had achieved something of a mythical reputation, meticulously constructed into this impossibly dizzying ideal over the span of several months. I couldn’t have picked a better time to watch it on a pleasantly sweltering summer day, clouds drifting off into a tangerine horizon that Shinkai himself would gaze appreciatively at. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, convinced I was about to witness a favourite that would stay with me for years to come. And yet. And yet, and yet, and yet. As the minutes ticked by I found myself growing increasingly exasperated over otherwise innocuous minutiae, firmly staring down trees as the forest stood, unnoticed. This insidious adherence to traditionalist body-swap connotations, groped breasts and panicked yelps proved to be insulting fresh off Inside Mari’s spectacularly invasive treatise on masculinity and the commodification of female bodies; misunderstandings undermining tension and hints at catharsis.

Mitsuha and Taki’s destined meeting didn’t feel convincing, void of tangible magnetism with the red string strangling them further; mystical phenomena relying on their desiccated charisma to save a rural village. I furiously debated the merits of the film’s magical realism elements, vexed that Mitsuha didn’t seize the chance to trawl through department stores, marvelling at fashion – eventually realizing what ought to have been a glaring shift compared to the magazines found in her family home. In a cultural hub bombarded with sensory information, I was uncertain that Mitsuha would have willfully disregarded the abrupt changes as we live in a technological age where phones are similarly this constant. Dates and times echo, adorning every site, newspaper – everything. Everywhere. I couldn’t just let it go.

As the credits of Your Name rolled, Radwimps’ pleasant if unremarkable score background noise, I found myself wanting. Frustrated. Would I have cared as much if the film hadn’t smoothly sashayed all the way up to MyAnimeList’s sought-after top spot, hailed as masterpiece on what certainly felt like every corner of the nerdternet? If media outlets hadn’t declared Shinkai to be ‘the next Miyazaki’ (a ludicrous statement, but I digress)? If I hadn’t seen fandom unreservedly discuss its glimmering merits for months on end? It felt as if my personal taste had been called into question, exasperated that I couldn’t see what the rest of the world had, silently championing A Silent Voice in my gloomily lit corner while Your Name bathed in the limelight.

Similar sentiments surfaced watching the second season of Live Live! Sunshine, an arguably good-natured if inoffensive romp which nevertheless resulted in my idly browsing through twitter every few minutes, glancing up only to hear Chika’s pained exhalations. A climactic sequence involves her mastering a complex flip (because of course she does), yet despite all that was on the line my thoughts began and ended with every ghastly stitch of Aqours’ outfits. In recent weeks I have come to terms with why I dislike the franchise, but why couldn’t I care about Your Name specifically?

I can acknowledge that Your Name is stunning, clouds this devastating force hinting at portentous twilight reaches destroying the lives of hundreds as opposed to representing communication breakdowns, a novel twist on an auteur staple deservedly derided. The lush bucolic greenery of Itomori a feast for the senses, immaculately presented and awe-inspiring, imbuing Your Name with a level of cultural significance portraying the decline of rural villages (the notion of a Hollywood adaptation inevitably called into question for such a quintessentially Japanese piece).

Despite the sprawling romanticism uniting past and present it nevertheless rings emotionally hollow, lacking that piercing youthful introspection I’ve come to expect even with Shinkai – and the rest of the world, perhaps – wanting me to believe otherwise. The level of sentimental nostalgia on display rarely feels convincing, magical realism and doomed photos filtered through the middling lens of a summer blockbuster. Mitsuha and Taki didn’t become one of my OTPs, instead amounting to wafer-thin characters I honestly couldn’t give a toss about.

One’s relationship with media is deeply subjective, inextricably tied to personal experiences – preferences nebulous and highly individualistic, as are consumers. Although I may not have been able to connect with Your Name in a manner that could be perceived as substantial, just as I hadn’t with this season’s Love Live! iteration, in recent weeks it’s something that I have also come to accept. And for that I offer no retrospective cautiously worded in order not to upset fans, no sensationalist take-down further goading voices of dissent – instead, I offer a simple statement, a simple reason: I just didn’t like it.

And that’s okay.

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