And boy is this ever one seriously addictive series! The Freeman family’s secrets are doled out so sparingly over the course of Series One’s 26 episodes, and at such regular intervals, that you’re always left wanting more, no matter how much has been cumulatively revealed about the past interactions between Liz, Jack and Eva, not to mention the local Catholic priest, Father McGinley. In part, this stems from the fact that each question the writers answer inevitably raises another half dozen or more others, making us ever-increasingly more curious about what each revelation means for and about the family and, moreover, how Eva plans to use each revelation to her advantage. Thus, tensions mount and the suspense becomes nearly unbearable as Eva’s plans for Jack, Liz and their five children become more and more apparent. And when episode 26 comes to its close, oh how you’ll want to push right on through to Series Two.

Unfortunately, if you’re viewing the series in its June 18, 2013 DVD release from Acorn Media, as I did, you’ll have to wait to marathon the rest of it until Acorn releases Series Two, which will hopefully be very, very soon! Still, be forewarned that the return to the main menu after episode 26, marking the end of the set, will be absolutely crushing, especially since there are no special features with which to tide yourself over until the next release! But I suppose you could just start Series One all over again, a prospect that’s sounding to me like more of a reasonable course of action than simply waiting for Series Two the more I think about it.

One final thing worth mentioning here is the inherent appeal of the series given its terrific writing staff. If you’re a fan of Abbott’s work on State of Play and Shameless, or merely a fan of Coronation Street, Emmerdale, or even Doctor Who or Queer as Folk, this is a series you’re apt to want to pick up regardless of whether or not the idea of a supernatural soap opera appeals to you outright. After all, much of the series’ stable of writers followed Abbott from Coronation Street (a wealth of whom also worked on Emmerdale). Also among them is none other than Russell T. Davies, creator of Queer as Folk and the man behind the reboot of Doctor Who. What’s more, writers Paul Cornell and Gareth Roberts, who also penned some episodes of New Who, join the writing staff for Series Two, as I understand it. Unfortunately, while I distinctly recall that Davies wrote at least three episodes in Springhill: Series One, I’m afraid I can’t tell you precisely which episodes they were. I found that, when I at last sat down to write this review, details about the series online are few and far between. Had I had any inkling that a list of episodes with corresponding writers would have been nowhere to be found, not even on IMdB, I would have kept better track of such material in my notes. Whilst I may indeed compile such a list if I work my way back through Series One prior to the release of Series Two, let this be a challenge to anyone who reads this to improve upon the series’ dreadfully lacking IMdB and Wikipedia pages for the betterment of the world.

The first three episodes here center on a secondary Nighlok named Serrator, who appears to have at last sided with the Nighlok Lord Xandred, but in reality has set in motion a plan for global conquest all his own. After temporarily disposing of Xandred at the outset of this volume, the pieces start to fall in place and we realize that Serrator’s plan had in fact been many, many, many years in the making. In short, Serrator’s plan involves manipulating the human/Nighlok half-breed, Deker, into cracking the world in half! It’s an intense couple of episodes featuring battles so epic that they leave you wondering how the real climax of the season could ever possibly compare. What’s more, some of the absolute greatest moment in the Samurai/Super Samurai saga can be found in this mini-arc, including Gold Ranger Antonio’s internal struggle when presented with an opportunity to outright kill the unconscious Deker. (Concerned parents needn’t worry, though. The whole thing’s played out in subtext really. He never specifically suggests killing him, but more aged viewers will know what he means when he says “attack.”)

The final episode at last addresses the Red Ranger’s secret, and it allows the volume to close with terrific tension. The secret in question, which I will not divulge here (and you’re welcome), really shakes things up for the Rangers, and the closing moments of the episode find the team in utter shambles as a result. This makes for the perfect cliffhanger, building immense anticipation for what will be the final standalone volume of Super Samurai. (And if you must know what I think about the season’s finale, you can read my thoughts on the entire season of Super Samurai here.)

Special features on the Lionsgate DVD release of Secret of the Red Ranger include the “Everyday Fun” music video, which I discussed in my review of the complete season Blu-ray, and a video called “MEGA Album Playlist,” which I’ll be damned if I can account for. The “MEGA Album Playlist” finds the Rangers screwing around in front of a greenscreen and then freezing in poses that allow them to be Photoshopped onto recognizable album covers on which the names have been changed to reflect a more Ranger-centric focus. I honestly have no idea who this thing is supposed to appeal to. The albums span some three or four decades, meaning that the references here will befuddle the majority of young viewers. And sure, adults such as myself who get the references do watch the series too, but it doesn’t make Power Rangers more accessible to me in any way, if that’s what they were going for with this. You see, my love for The Beatles and The Clash and my love for the Power Rangers are very different things, and I’m fine with that. Because people compartmentalize their preferences. In the same way that I would never put pickles in Lucky Charms, although I am a fan of both, I don’t particularly want to see the Power Rangers on the cover of Abbey Road. At least not for no reason whatsoever.

Adapted from Koroku Inumura’s light novel of the same name, The Princess and the Pilot is a take on 1953’s Roman Holiday set against the backdrop of a war between two empires: the Levam Kingdom and the Tozou Empire. The bulk of the narrative follows mercenary pilot Charles Karino’s attempt to deliver the Levam prince’s bride-to-be, Fana del Moral, across enemy territory to her future husband. Amidst the ever-mounting tension that their plane might be spotted by the enemy and the ensuing aerial combat between spectacular, fictional aircraft, the two develop feelings for one another– feelings that the filmmakers allow to remain implicit and therefore open to audience interpretation.

Of course, even if the characters are indeed legitimately in love, a relationship between them is impossible given the extreme class divide between them. After all, she’s a Levam royal and he’s a Levam/Tozou half-breed, making him the focus of the film world’s most violently racist attitudes. More so than the brilliantly-animated dogfights or the inherent appeal of such a tale of star-crossed lovers, this racial component makes The Princess and the Pilot a standout feature. It adds a fatally tragic overtone to a romance already complicated to the point of seeming unfeasibility by class and warfare. And yet, through this extreme depiction of an impossible relationship between two extremely polarized characters, the film achieves a universality that speaks to audiences (so much so, obviously, that it was adapted from a light novel into a film) with themes about the transcendence of love and rising above one’s societally-imposed limitations. And that the film isn’t wrapped up in some neat little, idealistic bow in the end treats both the subject matter and the audience’s intelligence with great respect and honesty. Sure, some viewers might take issue with the seeming lack of a conclusion here, but what we’re given in the end is realistically all we can expect lest the film veer into the realm of straight melodrama.

NIS’s Premium Edition of The Princess and the Pilot on Blu-ray comes packaged in a beautiful, 8”x11”x1” (WxHxD) hardboard case, with artwork on the front and back, and the title displayed on two of the three spines, which allows for a multitude of display possibilities. The case houses the single Blu-ray in a slimline case and also contains a collectible hardcover artbook, entitled The Princess and the Pilot Flight Log. The Flight Log accounts for the majority of the bonus content included with the film and offers incredible insight into its creation. The book features a write-up on the film by anime critic Ryusuke Hikawa; a brief piece about the screenplay by screenwriter Satoko Okudera (Summer Wars, The Girl Who Leapt through Time); interviews with director Jun Shishido, character designer Hidenori Matsubara, mechanical design artist Katsuya Yamada and the light novel’s author, Koroku Inumura; as well as 20 pages of artwork featuring concept art and sketches. The disc itself boasts Japanese commercials and theatrical trailers for the film.

Like so many of cinema’s landmark pictures, including 1915’s Birth of a Nation and 1927’s The Jazz Singer, In Old Arizona is a difficult to watch by modern standards. Only, unlike the other pictures named here, its difficulty does not stem from the presence of egregious racial stereotyping. It’s simply that In Old Arizona is not quite what we think of today when we hear the word “western.” For a western, there’s surprisingly little tension throughout the film even though a military posse led by Sergeant Mickey Dunn is hot on the trail of our protagonist, The Cisco Kid. This is due mostly to pacing, which is a far cry slower than that of westerns made even a decade later. Sgt. Dunn and The Cisco Kid go to the barber shop and The Cisco Kid takes a bath, then Sgt. Dunn sits at a bar waiting for information on The Cisco Kid to fall right into his lap while The Cisco Kid is off with his special lady friend and taking a nap. Exciting, right? It’s not until the hour mark really that anything significant in the tale happens, as it’s only then that Sgt. Dunn makes his move on The Kid’s girl in an attempt to turn her against him. The film is more about the performances of the three leads than it is about action and adventure (Warner Baxter won an Oscar for his performance of The Cisco Kid, after all). So if you abandon any preconceived notions you might have about the western and just let it all wash over you, you’ll likely really enjoy yourself here.

But of course, we don’t turn to In Old Arizona today specifically for escapist entertainment. We look at it as an important historical text, showcasing the latest technological advancements in a transitional period of film history. And technically, it’s both quite impressive and predictably quaint. The landscapes throughout are stunningly beautiful as capture on this early film stock, achieving an almost unreal, painted quality given that the image is flattened by the exteriors’ extreme depth of field. Needless to say, the sound is a little less precise than the cinematography here, highlighting just how far we’ve come in terms of sound design in the 84 years since the film’s release. Dialogue occasionally gets lost in the exteriors thanks to the imprecise use of microphones and lack of ADR, and the clattering of hoofs on the ground as a horse rushes into the distance ceases all-too-suddenly to sound natural at all. Still, when you consider that the partial talkie, The Jazz Singer, had been released only two years prior, that this film is not only 100% talkie, but was filmed largely outdoors as well makes it quite the little cinematic marvel in its own right.

In Old Arizona recently debuted on Blu-ray from Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment. And given the age of the original film stock, the transfer here looks quite sharp in spite of the wealth of scratches present in the image. Unfortunately, the release comes totally sans special features; a short, contextualizing retrospective look at the piece would have been most welcomed.

The series’ primary shortcoming is in its unwillingness to explore the relationship between Deunan and her cyborg partner Briareos, who we are told are boyfriend and girlfriend. However, apart from a couple tiffs, lord knows you’d never guess they were involved. When the two aren’t having a lovers’ quarrel, there is no romance between them whatsoever. It’s not even subtextual. And that’s a shame, because establishing that they are indeed involved with one another raises many questions that viewers will desperately want answered, such as: How has his being trapped in a cybernetic shell affected their love life? Does Deunan resent him being unable to touch her skin, to give her warmth? Does Briareos, although now more than a man, feel like less of a man as a result? The movies touched on these issues, sure, but answers to these questions are certainly nowhere to be found in Appleseed XIII.

The series is also plagued by incessant, pretentious cutaways to statues of the labors of Hercules, after which each of the first twelve episodes is named. Given that the relevance of Hercules to the overall narrative is not addressed until sometime around episode ten, they add absolutely nothing to our understanding of events as we progress through the series, and I’m not even sure it adds anything once we have realized the Hercules connection. Honestly, the cutaways serve only to draw us out of the series more than we may already have been by the flat relationships.

This is not to say, however, that the entire series is a washout. There are some really terrific episodes here, and it definitely picks up steam after the first three episodes. I’d say it’s nigh on impossible not to be drawn in by the fourth episode, which follows one of the city’s robotic police officers for a day, or by the following episode, in which a building is overrun by “vampires.” What’s more, the action throughout the series is top-notch and the animation from Jinni’s Animation Studios and Production I.G looks great. All this adds up, however, to a middle-of-the-road anime I’d find myself hard-pressed to recommend to anyone other than dedicated Appleseed fans.

Special features on FUNimation’s release of Appleseed XIII are actually rather extensive. The centerpiece of the bonus material is a thirteen-part series called The Inside, which covers the making of Appleseed XIII over the course of nearly two and a half hours! The Inside is such a massive addition to the set that it even has its own dedicated disc in the DVD portion of the set. Additional features include two episode commentaries, textless openings and closings, and trailers.

Regardless of the couple’s intentions with the contract, jealousy gets the best of them and threatens to destroy their marriage before it’s even begun. In this, the film abruptly transitions from a rather humorous romantic comedy about the battle of the sexes among men and women of leisure to a case study of the difficulties inherent in maintaining a relationship between two strong individuals. Although certainly far less funny in its latter half as a result, the film achieves an honesty in its approach to relationships, which are far more fickle and tenuous and in need of upkeep than cinema often portrays them. It’s fitting in that respect, I suppose, that the film’s “rediscovery” and Blu-ray debut from Cohen Media Group falls so close to the release of Before Midnight, Richard Linklater’s similarly daring exploration of the difficulties in sustaining modern relationships. While Perfect Understanding and Before Midnight are two films far removed from one another, no closer modern-day correlative springs to mind than that. And given that Before Midnight is easily the greatest film about relationships I have ever seen, comparing Perfect Understanding to it is high praise indeed. Of course, I’d expect no less from a film penned by Black Narcissus/Red Shoes-director, Michael Powell!

The HD transfer of the film in Cohen Media’s Blu-ray release is stunningly free of damage and debris and reveals the film to have been shot on a richly grainy stock. And while the presentation lacks both the invaluable special features and liner notes characteristics of other classic Cohen releases, the distributor commendably compensates for this lack in a manner of which I am a strong supporter: they simply give you more films. To this end, the film comes packaged with a rather strong pair of Mack Sennett comedy shorts also from 1933, including “Husband’s Reunion” and “Dream Stuff.”

I’ve covered the release of a number of Di Leo’s films on home video now, and after the rape/murder madness of Madness, when I tell you that Shoot First, Die Later is the toughest of the director’s films I’ve encountered, that should really tell you something. The film follows a corrupt police detective in the employ of an ever-expanding crime syndicate as he attempts to cover up one of the syndicate’s missteps. In the process, as I’m sure you can guess, many people get horribly murdered. What makes the film so difficult to process is not the murders themselves per se, but the combination of the film’s almost categorical lack of levity, some onscreen animal cruelty, depictions of brutality towards women, and the stereotypical portrayal of a pair of maladjusted, murderous homosexuals. Whereas a healthy dose of ultraviolence in Di Leo’s climaxes usually provides an appropriate counterbalance to any challenging material earlier in the film, the violence in Shoot First’s climax is relatively tame compared to the film’s more challenging earlier bits. The film thereby provides us with scant little catharsis for that difficult imagery, and by denying catharsis really forces us to ponder that deep-seated desire we have as viewer to see violence answered with violence. As a result, Shoot First, Die Later is a film you’ll be thinking about long after the credits roll.

The film comes to DVD and Blu-ray with a new HD transfer from the original 35mm negative and packed with special features. The transfer as presented in the film’s Blu-ray release is as beautiful as we’ve come to expect from Raro’s remasterings, with deep blacks, great image clarity and an incredible lack of damage and debris given the age of the source material. Special features include a documentary centered around a lengthy interview with Di Leo himself, a documentary featuring interviews with a trio of cast and crew members, and the Italian and English-language trailers. The release also comes with a 19-page booklet featuring some extensive and fascinating liner notes, which includes the story of the collaboration between Di Leo and Jean Pierre Melville that very nearly came to be.

Gone is the cursed videotape that perpetuated Sadako’s existence in Ringu. Instead, she persists in the form of a cursed video clip hidden somewhere online, a video that not only shows someone committing suicide, but inevitably drives anyone who views the video to suicide. The purpose of the video is not just to kill, though. It seems that Sadako’s using it to search for a new body, and the only person astute enough to stop her may just be telekinetic high school teacher Akane (Satomi Ishihara, Zatoichi: The Last).

As a horror film, Sadako is at its very best during the climax, in which Sadako’s minions (yep, she has minions now) stalk Akane through a large, vacant building. Although conceptually ill-defined and thoroughly absurd, the design of these things is spot-on, striking an uncomfortable balance of human and inhuman elements that renders them visually disturbing. Prior to that, however, the film proves itself virtually incapable of scaring viewers.

And where the film first stumbles is in the presentation of the cursed video clip. Unlike the eerie, avant-garde montage that defined the videotape in Ringu, the cursed video clip in Sadako is a fairly straightforward webcam video of a man proclaiming that Sadako (who he calls “S”) will destroy mankind once she’s been resurrected. Then, he gets attacked by an unseen force and the image of him dying appears in a series of pop-ups. It’s surprisingly unremarkable and deprives the film of much of what made the first film so effective.

Additionally, as you may have surmised by the title, Sadako 3D was filmed in 3D. The majority of shots throughout that are obviously intended to capitalize on the availability of 3D cinematography only detract from the film’s potential as a horror movie. Many of what should be the most dramatic moments are played in slow motion or linger onscreen for ages and thus quickly lose emotional effectiveness through a relentless pandering to 3D technology. The instance of this that most readily comes to mind is found early in the film, when Sadako’s hand pops out of a computer screen. It’s played as a jump scare, of course, but the hand remains there wiggling its fingers at the camera for what’s probably three to five seconds, but honestly feels more like thirty.

It should go without saying (although I’m writing it here, so maybe it isn’t so clear-cut as I thought) that jump scares should not last numerous seconds. They should be instantaneous, and the editor should quickly cut away from the scene to leave us reeling. Or the situation should be diffused immediately after the scare through the realization that whatever caused the scare is not in fact something scary, as when a horror heroine’s boyfriend startles her. As viewers, diffusing the situation like this lulls us into a false sense of security that can then be exploited by filmmakers in other ways to generate bigger scares. Lingering on a jump scare that’s actually supposed to be scary (i.e. one that involves Sadako), though, has the similar but undesired effect of acclimating us to the threat, creating an unintentional sense of security with regard to the narrative that is contrary to the filmmakers’ intentions (or it should be, if they’re making a horror film). As a result of this tonal instability, there’s even a death scene in Sadako that was so ludicrously executed that I thought it was a prank being played on a character by another, only to find out shockingly that no, the character had actually died there.

That said, the climax makes up for a lot of these earlier fumbles, and as a whole it ultimately stands up there with Ringu 0 as far as the other sequels/prequels are concerned. As such, if you’re even remotely a fan of the sequels, as I am, you’ll find this right up your alley and will likely be able to forgive it its many missteps by virtue of providing yet another chapter in the saga of Sadako. So just enjoy it, and let’s hope that the filmmakers have learned from their mistakes on Sadako and will have rectified these issues in the upcoming Sadako 3D 2, slated for release this fall.

Sadako 3D comes to North American DVD and 3D/2D Blu-ray on June 4, 2013 from Well Go USA.

Consider, for example, the viewing of a production of Romeo and Juliet. We know that Romeo will poison himself, mistaking Juliet to be dead, and we know that Juliet, upon awakening will find his body and subsequently stab herself. Yet, those of us fully engaging with the production find ourselves hoping that Romeo might stay his hand for but a moment, that the apothecary will refuse him poison, or that he might get advance word just this once of Juliet’s scheme to stage her death and flee Verona. We know what events must transpire and yet we hope that they won’t, experiencing the narrative afresh upon re-watching, as if we were seeing it for the first time.

And thus we experience The Rose of Versailles in no small part due to its central, fictional figure of Lady Oscar François de Jarjayes. This 40-episode anime circa 1979-1980, adapted from the manga by Riyoko Ikeda, finds the fictional Lady Oscar dropped smack dab in the middle of the rising, real-world conflict between the French nobility and the people who would someday lead the French Revolution. Born the youngest daughter of a French general (who was a real world personage), Lady Oscar is raised as a boy and eventually becomes the commander of the Royal Guard, committed to serving Marie Antoinette. At first, Lady Oscar must defend the innocent Antoinette from her enemies in the court, enemies of which the would-be queen is blissfully unaware or which she herself creates out of her own sense of propriety. To this end, a central conflict in the series’ first arc results from Antoinette’s staunch refusal to acknowledge Madame du Barry, a former prostitute and the King’s mistress, at court. Although a seemingly minor transgression to those of us looking back from the modern era, that this conflict is spread out across three episodes emphasizes the significance that French nobility placed on the archaic traditions (balls, lavish dress, feasts, etc.) that bankrupted taxpayers in the 18th century, forcing the average French citizen to persist in debilitating poverty.

For the most part, however, Oscar takes a back seat in these contests between the French aristocracy (which are inspired by real-life events as it happens), and only ever chimes in to lend a hand in the characters’ decision-making processes or step in when asses need kicking. But the real drama of the series, inspiring those moments when we feel the aforementioned pangs of hope with the greatest intensity, stems from Oscar’s intermittent contact with those average citizens on the verge of starvation, hard-working people who must watch their loved ones die as a result of Antoinette’s misguided perception that if she’s happy (which requires a hell of a lot of money), the people must be happy. In those moments, we, like Lady Oscar, hope beyond hope that the sweet but naïve Antoinette will see the error of her ways. But this hope is inevitably tempered by fear as the narrator constantly informs us that we are but a scant handful of years away from the French Revolution and Antoinette’s execution. Given that the series thus periodically reminds us of the inevitable tragedies awaiting our central cast of characters, an ominous air hangs over the proceedings even in moments of great levity.

What’s more, the series is not only spectacularly engaging on a narrative level, but it’s a marvelous work of animation as well! The Rose of Versailles is stylishly cinematic, employing such techniques as multiple exposures, color and lighting shifts, canted angles, multiple frames, and impressionistic backgrounds in its visual presentation. And these techniques are not used sparsely by any means. In fact, the list I compiled above was generated from elements noted whilst watching a single episode. Moreover, with regard to the series’ pacing, moments of silence highlight the action in each episode, giving us more than ample time to consider the ramifications of events depicted and thus adding drama to the whole affair. By comparison, American viewers of serialized animation would not see silence thus employed until the 1990s, when the producers of Batman: The Animated Series demanded more of the animators they contracted the series out to than simply getting the script onto the page as quickly and efficiently as possible. Thus, The Rose of Versailles is more akin to the sophisticated animation of the era’s cinema than that which we typically associate with late 70s-early 80s television animation.

The first twenty episodes of the series are currently available from Nozomi Entertainment in a four-DVD Limited Edition box set featuring a beautiful, hardboard collector’s case, textless openings and closings by way of special features, and a near-flawless transfer.

The series’ narrative centers on the “Sekirei Plan,” a game concocted by a rich madman that pits 108 (potentially alien) superpowered individuals known as Sekirei against one another in battle in a city-wide free-for-all from which only one Sekirei may emerge victorious. In order to use their superpowers to their fullest extent and therefore win, the Sekireis must be “engaged” by forming a physical relationship (initiated by a kiss) with an Ashikabi, a normal man or woman with whom the Sekireis then become bonded and reliant upon.

The thing is, not all Sekireis must have a unique Ashikabi. In fact, given that the Sekirei’s choice of Ashikabi (unless forcibly engaged) is determined by some sort of genetic chemistry between the two, many Sekireis find their Ashikabi amongst existing Ashikabis. Thus, throughout the course of the two seasons of Sekirei collected in FUNimation’s recent Blu-ray/DVD combo pack of Sekirei & Sekirei: Pure Engagement, the series’ protagonist Minato engages six Sekireis. While harems are usually about a conflict of interest amongst a group of (typically) women who all desire a single man, Sekirei breaks from this tired trend by making the harem a necessary component of the six Sekireis’ survival during the “Sekirei Plan.” They need each other to survive just as much as they individually desire Minato.

What’s more, Minato is not your typical, personality bereft, audience surrogate harem lead. Minato’s actions, including taking on the six Sekireis, may be motivated by his overwhelming selflessness, but we actually watch him grapple with the consequences of his decisions rather than blindly jump into action. Most notably, Minato struggles greatly with putting his Sekireis in danger when he’s compelled to help others, as he is in the build-up to the climaxes of both seasons, and he even grapples with bringing on his sixth Sekirei, Homura, who had to that point been a guy.

On that note, I also find the inclusion of Homura to be a particularly interesting facet of the series, as an inherent gender instability in Homura actually results in him developing female characteristics (namely breasts) to accommodate Minato’s sexual preference. Thus, Homura becomes the sole trans-gendered character amongst an otherwise female harem. Ignoring the fact that Homura’s inclusion is blatantly motivated by the mangaka’s/producers’ desire to appeal to the sexual preferences of a specific potential audience, including a legitimately transgender character (as opposed to bishōnen characters such as Baka and Test’s Hideyoshi) is pleasantly progressive of Sekirei and the identity crisis that plagues Homura as a result makes him one of the more captivating characters in the series.

FUNimation’s 9-disc Blu-ray/DVD combo release of Sekirei includes textless openings and closings, commentaries and trailes. The set also includes two, 28-minute OVAs: “Kurano’s First Shopping Trip” and “Two Gossip Topics,” which is divided into two half-episode sections. Although included in the FUNimation release as extras, it should be noted that the OVAs are intended to fit narratively between the first and second seasons in the order listed above. However, skipping them certainly won’t hinder your enjoyment of the series any. In fact, I wish I had skipped them myself as “Two Gossip Topics” easily marks the lowest point of the series, embodying everything I hate about the harem and mature-rated fighter animes. It’s an infantile, disgusting excuse to get all the Sekireis together (friends and enemies alike), get them naked for a physical and compare/contrast breast sizes, which is literally the plot of the first half of the OVA. The second half finds them all in a bath house squeezing each other’s breasts… just because. Sure, that’s fine for some viewers, but I for one ask for a little more motivation from a series than that justifying the nudity in “Two Gossip Topics,” which is to say: none.