Netflix’s “Moonrise”, helmed by Tow Ubukata and animated by WIT Studio, begins with a promise. Its premise is compelling, its animation exquisite, and its themes rooted in our times, climate decay, AI trauma, and colonialist guilt. With the Moon as both literal battleground and metaphorical dumping ground, the series explores the human cost of exploitation. But while “Moonrise” has its moments of brilliance, it ultimately buckles under the weight of an overcomplicated narrative structure and a penchant for spectacle that robs it of emotional resonance.
Set in a not-so-distant future, Earth uses the Moon as a landfill, offloading its physical and moral waste. The lunar residents, long treated as expendable, decide to retaliate. What begins as a political rebellion escalates into an apocalyptic confrontation, initiated by a mysterious figure named Bob Skylum, who sees himself less as a villain and more as a revolutionary leader.
At the center of this interplanetary conflict is Jacob “Jack” Shadow, an accidental protagonist haunted by loss and pulled into war by circumstance. Jack’s parents are among the many casualties of Bob’s assault on Earth, marking the beginning of his slow descent into reluctant heroism. But unlike typical protagonists in war-based anime, Jack is no savior. He is a vessel of grief, confusion, and suppressed rage—an emotional core that could have served as the show’s anchor had the storytelling been more coherent.
Where “Moonrise” excels is in its visual world-building and philosophical undertones. The series is visually stunning, and its depiction of lunar colonies, high-speed mech battles, and AI warfare is nothing short of breathtaking. The color palette swings between sterile grays of Earth’s militarism and the melancholic blues of the Moon’s quiet rebellion. There’s a certain Kubrickian chill to the vast lunar scapes, reminding viewers of humanity’s cold expansionist tendencies masked under technological progress.
Moreover, the AI angle is timely. The series frequently references neural backups, digital consciousness, and synthetic loyalty. These concepts tap into our ongoing anxieties about artificial intelligence: Who controls it? Who does it serve? And what becomes of human emotion in a world where memory can be stored, edited, or erased?
Unfortunately, these deep questions are often sidelined for plot convenience and emotional manipulation. One of the show’s biggest narrative flaws is its over-reliance on flashbacks. Instead of organically integrating Jack’s past into the storyline, the series forcefully inserts backstory just when the present timeline gains momentum. The result is a disjointed narrative rhythm—each time the story picks up pace, it’s abruptly halted by memories that could’ve been more effectively woven into the character’s actions and choices.
Jack’s childhood, while emotionally engaging, becomes more of a narrative crutch than a character-building tool. This clunky editing not only disrupts the emotional flow but also diminishes the stakes. At one point, a crucial battle scene is paused for a long flashback about Jack’s father teaching him to play the piano. While this might have worked as a quiet interlude elsewhere, here it feels out of place, even manipulative.
Another misstep lies in the underdeveloped subplots and supporting characters. While the central rivalry between Jack and Bob has dramatic potential, much of the surrounding narrative fails to support it. Subplots involving AI soldiers struggling with autonomy, Earth politicians navigating their guilt, or lunar rebels questioning Bob’s ideology are introduced with intrigue but often dropped or resolved without real consequence. These storylines, instead of enriching the main plot, feel like narrative clutter—more ideas than execution.
That said, Bob Skylum’s character does bring depth, especially once his true identity is revealed. Without spoiling too much, the twist surrounding Bob is well-handled and provides a much-needed injection of moral ambiguity. He is not a clear-cut villain; he’s a product of displacement, driven by a warped sense of justice. His monologues occasionally tip into philosophical indulgence, but they do add gravitas to the show’s central themes.
The final episodes attempt to tie everything together through a grand-scale confrontation and emotional catharsis. Yet, by this point, the emotional investment has already waned. The payoff doesn’t feel earned because the groundwork wasn’t laid with consistency. What should have been a gut-punch feels more like a mechanical conclusion, rushed and lacking the weight it so desperately wants to carry.
In many ways, “Moonrise” is emblematic of a broader trend in anime backed by global streaming platforms: big on ideas and production, light on narrative discipline. With creators like Ubukata at the helm and studios like WIT handling animation, the expectations are naturally high. But ambition alone isn’t enough. When storytelling is sacrificed for visual grandeur and thematic name-dropping, the result is a beautiful shell with a hollow core.
Still, “Moonrise” deserves some credit for aiming high. Its critique of Earth’s exploitation of the Moon is a clear allegory for real-world neocolonialism and environmental negligence. The metaphor works, and its message lands—at least initially. It’s also a rare anime that deals with AI trauma not as a novelty but as a lived experience, through characters struggling with memory, identity, and existence. For fans of cerebral sci-fi, there is enough here to spark conversation, even if it doesn’t linger long after the credits roll.
“Moonrise” is a show of contradictions. It is at once thoughtful and shallow, beautifully animated yet poorly edited, emotionally ambitious but structurally flawed. It holds a mirror to our fears about AI and ecological collapse, but forgets that a mirror only works if we take time to look into it. In its rush to dazzle, “Moonrise” forgets to connect, and that, more than anything, is its greatest failure.
